


This Much Is True

by musegnome



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Wedding Singer Fusion, F/M, M/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23185090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musegnome/pseuds/musegnome
Summary: Tadfield is bursting at the seams with angels and demons, and wedding season is in full swing. Wedding singer Crowley is gearing up for his own ceremony when he meets the new waiter, Aziraphale, who's trying to get his fiance to set a date. Neither of their weddings work out quite how they had planned...A Good Omens/Wedding Singer fusion written for the GO Romcom 2020 Event!
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 88
Kudos: 93
Collections: Good Omens Rom Com Event





	1. You Spin Me Round

**Author's Note:**

> Like so many other folks in this fine fandom, GO inspired me to get back into writing after a... very long time. This is the first fic I've posted, written for the Good Omens Romcom Event. Please enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titles are from songs on the Wedding Singer Soundtracks (Original and More Music).  
> Chapter 1: “You Spin Me Round (Like a Record)” by Dead or Alive.
> 
> Many thanks to Anti_kate for the beta!

Blessed if he didn’t love the chaos of a wedding reception in full swing. From his vantage point on the stage, Anthony J. Crowley took it all in, belting out pop music lyrics almost on autopilot as he took gleeful stock of the micro-dramas unfolding before him.

A rowdy toddler reached up and grabbed a fistful of the wedding cake. An older kid made off with an unattended half-finished bottle of beer. Servers dodged and wove between the crowded tables, and Crowley watched them eagerly for a dropped tray, a burned entrée, a glass of wine sloshed all over someone’s unsuspecting grandmother. Sometimes he could help things along with the tiniest demonic bump. But today the caterer was Angel Food, with his friend Anathema on staff, and she had a sixth sense for Crowley causing trouble. There she was, twisting deftly to avoid a handsy cousin as she set plates of hot food in front of the guests. Crowley resigned himself to mostly good behavior.

Besides, at a scene like this, trouble usually caused itself without any assistance required. Sure enough, there was an angry flurry a few tables away as a woman complained to a waiter Crowley hadn’t seen before. He couldn’t tell what the problem was, exactly, but the waiter reluctantly picked up the plate and headed back toward the kitchen. Crowley watched the fluffy white-blond curls – and was that a _tartan_ bow tie? – make their way across the reception hall.

He turned his attention back to the music. Beelzebub was always reliable on the keyboard and Newt was fine on the drums – as long as he was kept well away from anything that plugged in – but Crowley still wasn’t sure about the new guitar player they’d picked up last month. Eric, his name was, maybe? – some random demon with pointy hair. There were at least a dozen more just like him, waiting to get in on the action; they all liked to soak up the stress and chaos of the wedding industry like the humans soaked up massage oil at a spa. Plus, Crowley’s band had a decent reputation. They were usually booked solid through most of the season.

Beez swung into the opening notes of the next song, and Crowley grinned. The playful beat was just right for his cheerful mood. “If I, I get to know your name,” he sang happily.

*~*~*

Aziraphale pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen. “Can I get another lemon chicken? Mrs. Dowling says she definitely didn’t request the fish,” he called, setting the offending plate down on the counter. He didn’t see what was wrong with the fish. It was no gravlax in dill sauce, but it was perfectly serviceable seared tuna.

Uriel turned to inspect the remaining entrées and Aziraphale took advantage of their momentary distraction to snag one of the mushroom canapes. It had gone a bit cold, but a tiny miracle warmed it right up again and he popped it in his mouth.

“No chicken left,” Uriel proclaimed, turning back as Aziraphale hastily swallowed. “Unless she wants pasta, she’ll just have to make do with the tuna.”

“I can’t go back out there and tell her that!” Aziraphale protested. “She’s not the type to take no for an answer. _You_ go out there and tell her. She’ll just want to speak to you anyway.”

Uriel sighed irritably. “We don’t have time for this.” A quick snap of their fingers downward and the fish was miraculously replaced with chicken. Aziraphale eyed it dubiously. Everyone always swore they could taste the difference between miracled food and food cooked human-style – and Aziraphale himself certainly could – but it would have to do. He hoped Mrs. Dowling wouldn’t notice the substitution.

“ _What._ Is that.” Uriel gestured at Aziraphale’s tartan bow tie.

He flushed. “It’s stylish. And it doesn’t clash with the rest of the uniform,” he said defensively. “I thought just a bit of personal flair-"

Uriel scowled. “Stick to the uniform next time, or you’re out. We don’t need someone who can’t toe the line.” Aziraphale did his best to smile obediently as he whisked the plate of chicken off the counter.

“I thought you said this job would be fun!” he hissed at Anathema, who was unloading a tray of dirty dishes. “Basking in love and joy on someone’s happy day and all that. The only joy out I’ve seen out there is the sadistic glee they’re taking from sending me back and forth to the kitchen. They’re running me ragged!”

“Not so ragged that you don’t have time to bitch about it,” Anathema pointed out affably. “Besides, we get to take home whatever food’s left afterwards. You seemed to like the canapes well enough.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes as he pushed his way back out the door.

*~*~*

Crowley saw the blond head emerge from the kitchen, but he was too busy scanning the crowd to follow its progress. The beer-filching kid had made off with at least another two bottles, and Crowley thought he’d even seen the boy snag a barely-touched vodka tonic. He was bad with human ages, but the kid couldn’t even be a teenager yet, and there was no way a human liver that young could handle so much booze. Crowley was all about wedding anarchy but he drew the line at alcohol-poisoned children.

The last notes of the latest song faded out, and Crowley was surprised when Beez didn’t immediately start up with the next one. He glanced at his fancy watch and realized it was already time for the toasts. The maid of honor pushed back her chair and rose to take the stage, but before she could even climb the first step, an older man stumbled drunkenly up the stairs and snatched the mic. Crowley recognized R. P. Tyler, town busybody – but he’d never before seen the man so much as tipsy.

“This is a disgrace!” Tyler slurred. “Everyone here should be ashamed of themselves. Look what a state you’ve put the place in! Glitter and confetti everywhere. You’ve tromped through people’s gardens just to get your pretty pictures. Driven your fancy cars too fast and torn up the cobblestones, and parked in the flowers to boot. Someone at the stag party last night even sicked up on the sidewalk outside the pub. I head up the Neighborhood Watch here, and I won’t stand for it, I tell you!”

“Granddad!” cried the groom, but R. P. Tyler paid them no mind.

“And you lot!” he snarled, whirling on the band. Crowley took a step back, startled. “Angels and demons running amok everywhere. Snapping your fingers like beat poets and changing things all over the place until nobody knows what’s what. All this occult magic-”

“Occult _and_ ethereal!” someone huffed indignantly from the crowd, and Tyler’s head whipped around. As he furiously searched for the source of the commentary, Crowley leaned forward and plucked the microphone from his hand.

“Mr. Tyler, yes?” Crowley asked, and the man swung back to him, blinking in bleary outrage. “You’re absolutely right. We could all stand to be more careful about the gardens, and the glitter, and the pubs.” He decided to skip over the part about fancy cars tearing up cobblestones. “But can you blame anyone for wanting to come here for the most romantic day of their lives? How many places can claim to be so beautiful that actual angels and demons both visit? There’s practically an aura of love over the whole town.

“Even we get married in Tadfield. In fact, as some of you might know, I’m getting married here myself in a couple of weeks.” Crowley waited for the smattering of polite applause to die down. “And there’s more than a few miracles floating around from both sides, sure. But you know what the biggest miracle is today? The love we’re celebrating between these two right here.” He gestured at the bride and groom. “Can I get a wahoo for the happiest couple in Tadfield today?”

A much more enthusiastic round of applause (and several tipsy wahoos) followed Crowley’s speech, and he was pleased and relieved to see the wedding couple’s anxious faces relax into smiles. He could hear murmurs of “Good job!” “Lovely speech!” “Demon or no, what a great wedding singer.” The guests surged forward to envelop the bride and groom, and Tyler flushed in embarrassment before tottering off the stage to join them.

Cold fingers gripped Crowley’s elbow and he jumped. “I don’t think that little presentation will get you any commendations from Below,” said Beelzebub. They arched an eyebrow.

“Yeah. Well,” Crowley said, collecting himself. “Guess we don’t have to start up the music again right off the bat. I don’t think any toasts will be happening for a bit.”

“Take a few minutes. I can cover. You too,” Beez nodded at Newt and Eric. Crowley took a deep breath as his bandmates dispersed, and as he headed down the stairs himself, he heard Beez start to play.

 _Funny,_ he thought, _I don’t remember them being especially partial to Culture Club._

He made his way toward the side door, hoping for some fresh air after the crush of the reception hall – and there by the exit was Beer Kid, wobbling in place and looking decidedly green. Without missing a step, Crowley snagged him by the collar and propelled him along. “Come on. Let’s get you outside.”

*~*~*

Crowley dangled his feet off the loading dock as Beer Kid heaved into the dumpster. The boy had been too far gone to miracle sober, but Crowley had done what he could and he was pretty sure the kid wasn’t going to die, no matter how much he might want to for the next several hours.

Up close, his face was familiar. Crowley thought he was one of the gang that hung out with Adam, whose family lived in the house upstairs from Crowley’s basement apartment. “What’s your name, kid?” he asked when the retching subsided.

“Brian,” came the coughing reply.

“You feeling any better?”

“Some,” Brian sniffled.

“Well then, Brian. Guess we won’t be stealing anyone’s drinks again until we’re a little older, will we?” asked Crowley. Brian clawed himself back over the side of the dumpster and heaved again in response.

The door banged open and out came the server with the fluffy white hair, carrying two trash bags in each hand. He tossed them into the dumpster, careful to avoid Brian, and wrinkled his nose. “Are you quite all right, young man? I don’t think I’ve ever seen that much sick come out of anyone before.”

“Ah, he’ll be fine,” chuckled Crowley when Brian failed to respond. “Nothing a bit more puking won’t get rid of. It is a lot, isn’t it? I think I even saw a boot come out of him.”

“Do you know him, then?”

“A little. Mostly I wanted to make sure he was OK. And I didn’t want him to be sick in front of his family and everyone. Especially not that Tyler guy.” Crowley stood up and studied the newcomer. “You’re one of the angels, yeah? Don’t think we’ve met before. I thought I knew all of Uriel’s crew.”

“Oh! Yes. I’m Aziraphale.” He finally focused his full attention on Crowley, and the intensity of his blue eyes hit the demon like a punch to the gut.

The angel started to extend his hand, but glanced at the dumpster and pulled back, wiping the hand on his uniform apron apologetically. “I’m just here for the summer. I heard Uriel was looking for assistance for the season, and thought it would be a pleasant diversion. And my friend Anathema is one of their staff, too.”

Still disoriented, Crowley scrambled to put together a reply. “Er – you’re friends with Anathema? I’ve known her for ages. Well, as long as one knows humans, anyway."

“Oh, yes – you are on the other side, aren’t you?” Aziraphale looked uncertain, but quickly brightened. “You’re the singer, yes?”

Crowley bowed with a flourish. “Crowley, at your service.”

“That was _such_ a lovely speech you gave in there, Crowley. Saved the whole reception! It was almost… angelic."

Crowley shook his head. “My angelic days were a long time ago.”

There was an awkward pause. “Well – anyway, congratulations on your upcoming nuptials! I’m a bit jealous, if you must know.” The angel gave him a look, and Crowley perked up, leaning against the wall with a sway of his hips. Lust was one of his easiest temptations, and Hell would be especially happy if he reeled in an angel. He was a bit disappointed when Aziraphale continued, “I’m engaged myself, but Gabriel won’t set a date.

“I don’t even know how serious he is about it,” the angel sighed. “Some days I feel like I’m doomed to wander the planet alone.” He tilted his chin up, clearly composing himself, and soldiered on: “I do hope we can get married here in Tadfield, though. You’re right, it is gorgeous.” He hesitated before turning a brilliant, hopeful smile on Crowley. “If we ever do get married here, would you sing at our wedding?”

Dazzled, Crowley nodded. He didn’t see how anyone could say no to that radiance. “Sure, angel. Uh – but if you’re having a church do, it’ll have to be an offsite reception.” He grinned crookedly.

*~*~*

Beelzebub squinted at the clock at the back of the reception hall. _Take a few minutes,_ they’d said. It was already longer than _a few minutes_ , and no sign of the rest of the band. They had ended their song a few moments ago, and the wedding guests were beginning to mill about restlessly.

Irritation buzzed through their head, and their fingers came down on the keys. The crowd muttered when the first notes were a repeat of Beez’s previous song, but the grumbles stilled to an uneasy silence as the lights dimmed and began to flicker.

*~*~*

Crowley and Aziraphale were staring at each other like idiots when Newt popped his head out the door. “Crowley! There you are. Thank G – er, somebody. You’ve got to get back in here. Beez is turning on the crowd.” The dim light spilling out behind him had taken on an ominous red tinge, and Crowley could hear Beelzebub’s soft clear voice singing “ _Do I really want to hurt you? Do I really want to make you cry?_ ”

Crowley hastily straightened from his slouch against the wall. Brian hadn’t retched for a good amount of time now, and Crowley helped him upright. “Remember: no repeats of this until you’re old enough to buy the booze yourself, yeah?” Brian groaned as he was bustled toward the door. Crowley nodded at Aziraphale. “See you around, angel.”

“Oh! Before you go,” said Aziraphale quickly, and Crowley turned back in spite of himself. “Gabriel and I aren’t having a wedding any time soon, but we are having a party next Sunday. Would you like to come? And you as well,” the angel added politely to Newt. “As guests, of course – Gabriel has the music all taken care of. Anathema will be there, so it won’t be entirely angels and people you don’t know.”

Newt’s attention had snapped to Aziraphale at the mention of Anathema, and Crowley inwardly sighed. “Yeah, sure, we’ll be there. Thanks for the invite.”

“Wonderful! Anathema can give you the details.” The sunbeam smile reappeared, and Crowley had to look away before the brightness could blind him, even through his sunglasses. He chivvied Newt and Brian back through the door, and it swung closed gently behind them.

*~*~* *~*~* *~*~*

Crowley straightened his jacket as he stepped out of the car and began the walk back toward the house. There had actually been valet parking, but he’d be blessed if he was going to let anyone else get behind the wheel of the Bentley.

“Thanks for the ride. I don’t think poor old Dick Turpin would have been quite up to the standards here,” said Newt, falling into step beside him.

“Not a problem. I’m not sure the two of us are quite up to the standards here either, for what it’s worth,” Crowley replied. Gabriel’s house was huge – almost a mansion, really – and no matter that Crowley had pulled out all the stops with a sleek, slim, perfectly tailored suit, he still felt insignificant faced with this grandiose monstrosity.

His unease deepened as they drew nearer; Newt even picked up on it, and patted the demon’s arm awkwardly. “Not sure what you’re so worried about. I thought you said no smiting was allowed?”

“Frowned on, at least – it’s hardly a supernatural tourist destination if there’s open warfare between the two sides, now is it?” Crowley said as they went up the front stairs. “But as long as they don’t involve the humans, it’s not technically disallowed.” He hesitated a bit stepping through the doorway. Anathema had promised him that the house was not consecrated, and he was relieved when he couldn’t feel even a tingle in his feet. But the interior was a sterile, gleaming white as far as the eye could see. There was almost no furniture, other than the tall cocktail tables that had no doubt been brought by the caterers, and everything was spotless.

They passed a table with a giant crystal bowl of bright pink punch, and with a smirk Crowley snagged a cup and handed it to Newt. There was no way Newt was going to get through the evening without spilling at least a little, and Crowley looked forward to seeing where it landed.

Dressed in blue velvet, Anathema emerged from the crowd. Newt straightened up and, to Crowley’s disappointment, tossed back the entire cup of punch without losing a drop.

Anathema flung her arms around Crowley in delight. “I didn’t think you’d really show up!” she exclaimed. Newt awkwardly held his hand out for a shake and was clearly stunned to receive his own hug instead. “I’m so glad you guys are here. There’s no food, most everyone here is too snooty to talk to lowly humans, and the music is _atrocious_. I don’t suppose either of you brought your instruments?”

Crowley snorted. “Does Newt look like he’s got a drum kit stashed away? Besides, I was told the music was already taken care of.”

She gave him a look. “Have you actually listened to it?”

Crowley hadn’t. He’d vaguely heard it when they’d come in, but it was a bland instrumental and he’d banished it from his attention almost immediately. Now, though… He concentrated a moment, and his eyebrows shot up. “Is that – is that a Muzak version of ‘How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?’”

“It _is_!” agreed Anathema in enthusiastic horror. “Where does someone even _find_ something like that?!”

Crowley thought for a moment. “I think Aziraphale told me Gabriel was responsible for this auditory travesty.”

“Oh. That explains it.” Anathema’s lip curled. “That guy. I don’t know what Aziraphale sees in him.”

“So what’s this Gabriel like?” Crowley demanded, a bit astounded to find himself feeling protective toward Aziraphale. Christ, they’d only talked for maybe five minutes.

“You should see for yourself. Come on, let’s find them. I want to say hello to Aziraphale anyway so we can get out of here.” Anathema stood on tiptoe, craning her neck to peer over the other party guests, and after a few seconds she led Crowley and Newt further back into the hall.

The three of them maneuvered their way through the crowd to a small cluster of five angels at the foot of a grand staircase. Uriel looked up and gave a slight nod to the newcomers; Crowley didn’t recognize any of the others except for the one on the end. Aziraphale, in a suit entirely of that cold, pristine white, stood tense and awkward next to a tall angel with dark hair and an aggressive voice. His eyes widened when he saw Crowley, and his blush was a pop of color. “Oh, good Lord,” he breathed, turning his face away but looking back just enough to give Crowley a second, unsubtle once-over.

Crowley forgot himself in the unexpected thrum of delight that coursed through him at Aziraphale’s reaction. “See something you like, angel?” he teased, anxiety entirely forgotten as he slid up on Aziraphale’s left, ignoring Newt and Anathema’s surprised stares. Aziraphale flicked a glance rightward toward his partner and his smile became a little more fixed.

The other angels’ conversation had slowly died away, and Crowley suddenly found himself at the center of their cool regard. “I thought I smelled something evil. A demon, here? Really?” the dark-haired one sneered. He turned cold purple eyes on Crowley, who disliked him immediately.

Crowley couldn’t tell if the comment was more hostile or contemptuous, but either way he wasn’t going to let it go. He was saved from getting himself into trouble by Aziraphale, who lifted his chin and said frostily, “Yes, a demon, here, really. I invited him, Gabriel – don’t be rude. This is the singer I told you about from the wedding last weekend.”

Gabriel relaxed, and his laughter boomed out across the hall. “Oh, that’s right! You saved the day for the humans. All hail the conquering hero! I didn’t know Aziraphale could be that impressed by demonic wiles.” Crowley would have bristled at the condescension, but was caught off guard by his stomach’s flip at Gabriel’s last bit. Aziraphale, impressed by a demon? By him?

 _What. Is wrong. With you,_ he snarled at himself. _You are getting married in five days. Get your shit together._

Aziraphale was introducing them. “Gabriel, this is Crowley and Newt, and you’ve met Anathema before. Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet my fiancé Gabriel. And Michael, and Sandalphon. I think you all know Uriel already.” Crowley gave them a little wave. “I wish you could have heard Crowley sing, Gabriel. He has the most marvelous voice.” Aziraphale’s own voice became wistful. “Crowley’s getting married next week. And do you know, he told me he might sing at _our_ wedding. If we ever have one.”

Gabriel groaned. “Do not start this passive-aggressive business again, Aziraphale. I told you already: we should just go down to a church and have Michael read the rite and get it over with. The church here in Tadfield, if you want. Why are you so set on all this fuss, anyway?”

“Because – because it’s nice,” faltered Aziraphale. “The flowers, the music, the – the cake…”

The rest of the angels shouted with amusement. “The cake!” howled Sandalphon. “Of _course_ that’s what you’d be thinking of.”

“We don’t need to sully our celestial corporations with cake, Aziraphale.” Shaking his head, Gabriel clapped his hand roughly to Aziraphale’s stomach. “You especially. You’ve gone a bit soft as it is.”

Watching Aziraphale’s face fall brought something vicious and red-hot rising into Crowley’s throat. “It’s all right, angel. Not everyone has the time to put in all that work. I mean, I’ve spent absolute ages growing the right flowers for my wedding, finding the perfect wines – heaven, I even made the decorations.” He glared from behind his sunglasses. “But hey, there’s something to be said for efficiency, after all. Quick and easy, yeah? Get it done with minimum effort.” He poured demonic energy into Gabriel, not sparing a thought for the potential consequences of getting caught pushing temptation in this den of ethereal sanctimony.

Gabriel blinked. He went still, clearly considering. He finally turned to Aziraphale. “This is something that really means that much to you?”

“…yes. It does,” Aziraphale said hesitantly, looking back and forth between Gabriel and Crowley in confusion.

“Well, then. I guess I can’t be outdone by a demon, now, can I?”

The confusion turned to cautious joy. “Do you mean to say…”

“Go ahead, then. Set the date. Whenever you want – as soon as possible, in fact. Let’s get this dealt with.”

“Oh, Gabriel!” Aziraphale gasped ecstatically, and reached out to pull his fiancé’s face down for a kiss. Crowley tried not to let his irritation show.

Gabriel allowed the display of affection, giving Aziraphale a chaste peck on the mouth, but pulled back with a stern look. “You’ll have to handle all the arrangements, though. The demon was right about one thing – I definitely don’t have the time. Besides, you’re the one who wants all this human foolishness.”

“Are you sure? I’d really like to do it together,” Aziraphale said hopefully. Gabriel just looked at him. -Quickly, Aziraphale said, “Well, I’m sure my friends can help me get everything sorted. Anathema, dear, you’ll be my maid of honor, won’t you?”

“Absolutely, Aziraphale. I’d be thrilled!” Anathema gave him a firm hug. The angel had that sunshine smile again, beaming at them with almost unbearable warmth, but neither the humans nor Crowley missed the looks the other angels were exchanging behind him. “I’m so happy for you – for you both,” Anathema added hastily, “but I’m afraid we have to be going now. Call me tomorrow! We can have lunch and start making plans.”

“Leaving so soon?” Aziraphale protested, but he was obviously distracted by his unexpected nuptials. As Anathema dragged Crowley and Newt away, he was already chattering happily to Uriel about venues and color schemes, while they clearly tried to keep from rolling their eyes and while Gabriel, Michael, and Sandalphon muttered together off to the side.

*~*~*

“What the hell was that?” hissed Anathema as soon as they were out the door.

“That,” Crowley said savagely, “was me tempting an angel to the sin of Pride under his own smug fucking nose in his own antiseptic fucking house.” The fury rose in him again as he thought of Aziraphale wilting in the face of the other angels’ mockery.

Anathema eyed him skeptically. “Just a bit of temptation, then, hmm? No ulterior motivation?”

“Nope,” Crowley said, popping the -p. “Just a bit of wanting to burn that purple-eyed pustule alive. You’re right – what does Aziraphale see in that guy?”

“Clearly not whatever it was he saw in you when you first came up to him,” Anathema chuckled, arching an eyebrow. “I can’t deny you’re looking very fetching in that outfit. Does Dagon know you’re running around like this, flaunting yourself in front of angels instead of finalizing your catering order?”

“I’ll have you know I finalized the catering order two weeks ago,” Crowley informed her haughtily, ignoring the first part of her question. “I’ll drop you by your place on my way home, Newt – I have to get back and turn this temptation report in while I still have the details fresh. Anathema, you need a lift?”

“I’m good,” she said, fishing a valet ticket out of her purse. “Wish I’d ridden my bicycle, though. I’d love to have seen the valets parking it.”

Crowley laughed and strode off toward the Bentley, Newt trailing behind him. But as he thought about the party, and about Aziraphale’s newly impending wedding, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all somehow going to come back and bite him in the arse.


	2. Love Stinks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gets an unpleasant surprise at his wedding, and proceeds to sing his feelings at his next gig.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titles are from songs on the Wedding Singer Soundtracks (Original and More Music).  
> Chapter 2: “Love Stinks” by the J. Geils Band.
> 
> Many thanks to Anti_kate for being the best beta!

Crowley wasn’t a huge fan of musicals, but he made an exception for Madame Tracy’s singing lessons. The Music Man wasn’t one of the ones he hated (unlike, say, The Sound of Music) and he’d melt in holy water before admitting it, but… “Till There Was You” secretly appealed to his inner romantic. He’d insisted Tracy keep it quiet, though. Hell would never let him live it down – and the lessons might even cancel out some of his demonic work. Especially since he was giving them for free.

“There were birds in the sky, but I never saw them winging. No, I never saw them at all, till there was you,” warbled Tracy as Crowley accompanied her on her little upright piano. “Then there was music, and wonderful roses, they tell me.” 

They wrapped up after she’d made it a third time through, and as Tracy carefully hid the music, Crowley applauded. “Beautiful, love. Didn’t hurt my ears nearly so much as the last time.” He dodged her swat, laughing. “Don’t you worry, Tracy. Shadwell’s going to be thrilled.” 

Tracy beamed at him delightedly. “Do you really think so? I’ve worked so hard – I hope this will show that dear old grump how much I care for him.” 

“I do think so, and you know what? I hope Dagon and I will be as happy as you two.” Privately, he was skeptical of Shadwell’s ability to appreciate Tracy’s gesture, but she was so excited – and her singing really had improved.

“Oh, you will be.” Sitting down next to him on the piano bench, Tracy took his hand. “Are you nervous?”

Crowley smiled and shook his head. “I’m actually not that nervous. You know, I’m around weddings all the time. Can’t wait for mine. It’s gonna be great.”

Tracy patted his hand. “Well, that’s all right then. But – are you nervous about the wedding night? This won’t be your first time with intercourse, will it? Is that something you demons even do?” 

Crowley’s smile froze on his face, and his eyebrows shot so high they’d probably need parachutes to come back down. Tracy chuckled. “No need to make that face. I suppose there was no need to ask that question either, to a fine-looking fellow like yourself. Just thought I might see if you needed any pointers, is all.”

Crowley coughed. “I, um. Think we’ll be all right on that front.” He hurriedly stood from the piano bench. “Look at the time. I’d better get going. Big day tomorrow, y’know.”

“At least let me feed you dinner first! I’ve just made a big pot of Mr. S’s favorite meatballs.” Crowley edged toward the door, and Tracy sighed in exasperation. “All right, then, you scoundrel. She stepped forward and caught his hands in her own. “Now you listen to me, Anthony Crowley. You’re going to make a fine husband, demon or no.” She gave him a last hug. “We’ll see you tomorrow. Will we still have our lesson next week?”

Crowley gave her a reassuring smile. “You bet. I’ll see you then, Madame T.” He turned and fled.

*~*~*

The sun shone brightly and Crowley turned his face toward the sky, closing his eyes behind his sunglasses. He’d arranged for a tent out of consideration for the other demons, who were accustomed to the dimness of Hell, but his snake self loved the light and warmth.

 _There was music, and wonderful roses_ , he hummed to himself. He could smell his roses woven into the trellis as they warmed in the sunlight. Roses were rather overdone for weddings, but he was pleased with the black petals edged with a hint of crimson; for once his plants had done him proud. He opened his eyes to admire the sparkle of the gold and silver stars he’d scattered across the banners and bunting. The decorations were perfect, the guests were seated, and his attendants were arrayed behind him: Anathema, Newt, and Beelzebub. The humans were dressed to the nines in dark formalwear, but Beez slouched in their usual garb. Crowley was frankly surprised they’d agreed to be there at all. 

All that was missing was his partner. Running a bit late, but that wasn’t unusual. He imagined Dagon’s sharp-toothed smile, was eager to see the gown they said they’d chosen. He adjusted the seafoam-green silk of his pocket square; he hoped it would match. He bit back his anxiety and waited.

And waited.

*~*~*

At least half an hour had gone by, and murmurs were spreading among the crowd. Newt and Anathema shuffled in place, both of them starting to shine with sweat; Beelzebub was usually cool and unflappable, but even their impatience was clearly starting to show. 

A rumble of earth sounded and everyone turned, relieved, but all that emerged from the ground was a very small, very round demon who looked terrified to find itself the center of attention. It sidled nervously toward the nearest guest, who happened to be Deirdre Young, and plucked at her skirt. She bent to listen as it whispered in her ear, and her smile went rigid; the little demon quickly plunged back down into the dirt as Deirdre rose and made her way to Crowley. He knew what she was going to say before she quietly spoke.

“Dagon’s not coming.”

Crowley felt like he was falling.

*~*~*

Hours later he was sprawled with Deirdre and Arthur in their kitchen, still reeling from the day. He’d gone ahead and fed his guests with the wedding food – the menu he’d agonized over all those weeks ago, he remembered bitterly – but he’d brought all the wine back to his basement apartment at the Youngs’ house, and by now the three of them had gone through several bottles. Newt and Anathema hadn’t wanted to leave him, but he’d sent them home. He wanted to lick his wounds with as few witnesses as possible. Beez had fucked back off to Hell with the rest of the demons, and he wondered what Dagon was saying to them. 

Adam and his friends were making a noisy ruckus out in the garden with the dog. Crowley had kept an eye on Brian as the adults drank, but the boy showed no signs of wanting to repeat his previous experience. 

Deirdre got up from her chair a bit unsteadily to head outside and see what the children were up to. The door closed behind her, and Arthur straightened in his chair to study Crowley with drunken sympathy. “Why d’you think Dagon jilted you?”

Crowley had downed quite an extraordinary amount of alcohol, and was not feeling up to this line of questioning. He didn’t know if he ever would be. “Arthur, I have no idea. Your guess is as good as mine. Or as bad.” 

Arthur thought for a moment. “Were the two of you good together in bed?”

“ _What_.” Crowley stared at him, appalled. First Tracy, now Arthur – all this human inquisition about his sex life was _completely_ out of control.

Arthur nodded sagely to himself. “Deirdre and I were going through a slump a while back, but we managed to get things revved up again, eventually. She has this thing she likes to do where she works over my nipples –”

“ _Ngk_ ,” choked Crowley, sitting up and burying his face in his hands. Some of the noises he heard from upstairs at night started to make a terrible sort of sense that he was not equipped to deal with in this condition.

He was rescued by Deirdre’s reappearance, hard as it was to look her in the face after Arthur’s revelations. “Dog chased a rabbit through a hole in the hedge, and two of the kids got stuck trying to squeeze through after him.” She shook her head ruefully before giving Crowley a closer look. “Have you eaten anything tonight, love? You’re a mess.” She rummaged through the cabinets for a plate and a fork. Most of the wedding guests had left before they brought out the cake, and there were still two whole tiers left in silver bakery boxes. She cut a thick slice and put it down on the table in front of Crowley.

He scrubbed at his eyes wearily and rose. Deirdre glared at him sternly. “Wherever you’re going, you take that with you. You need something to soak up that wine.” He obediently picked up the cake, but when Deirdre turned away to close the box he snagged a nearly-full bottle of the red as well. He didn’t look at Arthur as he headed to the front porch.

*~*~*

Crowley was sitting on the front steps, picking listlessly at his cake and drinking the wine straight from the bottle, when the ground began to mound and crumble in the front yard. A dark figure pulled itself up. Shaking off dirt, Dagon took a few hesitant steps toward him. 

“You’re late,” Crowley said, setting the plate down on the top stair and pulling his knees to his chest.

“I’m sorry,” they said, not sounding too sorry at all. “I just couldn’t do it.” Crowley stared at them until they started to squirm. 

“I guess if you need to think about it a little more –”

“No,” Dagon cut him off. “I don’t need to think about it. I don’t ever want to marry you.”

Crowley took a deep breath, thinking about all their guests staring at him in pity. “You know, that information might have been a little more useful to me yesterday.”

Dagon started to pace. “I’ve been talking to Hastur and Ligur and some of the others the last couple of days, and I think I’ve figured out what’s been bothering me. I don’t want to marry Crowley now. I want to marry Crowley from six centuries ago. Turning priests, tempting politicians… seducing Da Vinci like Asmodeus…” They sighed dreamily.

“Look, I tempted an angel just last weekend! I can go tempt another one right now if you want,” Crowley said desperately. White-blond curls flashed through his mind.

Dagon whirled on him like they could read his thoughts. “The point is, I realized the demon I was about to marry is a wedding singer. I’m never going to get you out of Tadfield.”

“Why would you want to get me out of Tadfield?” demanded Crowley incredulously. “I’ve caused so much chaos here. They love my work down below.”

“All those memos you’ve been sending? About changing up road signs and blocking mobile phones? You’re ridiculous, Crowley. You and all this wedding bullshit. You think I want to hang around in some human basement while you do stupid crap like spilling wine and sending the wrong flowers and not a single soul to show for any of it?” 

“Once again,” Crowley snarled, “things that could have been brought to my attention _yesterday_!”

Their argument was interrupted by the bang of the front door. Crowley turned to see Adam with Dog at his heels. “Mom sent me out to make sure you were eating your cake, Mr. Crowley,” he said calmly. “Hi, Lord Dagon.”

Dagon forced a smile and gave him a little wave. “Hello, kid.”

Adam didn’t return the wave, just looked at them coolly. “That wasn’t very nice, what you did to Mr. Crowley. You’re a bit– ”

Crowley flung his hands in the air and time ground to a halt. “ _Adam_. For Satan’s sake, you do not call the Lord of the Files a bitch.” 

Visions of Dagon turning the boy to ash in a blast of hellfire made Crowley turn as pale as his wedding cake, but Adam only set his jaw stubbornly. Crowley thought with a secret surge of pride that the kid probably wouldn’t back down from Satan himself. “Look, Adam. Let me finish talking to Dagon, all right? Eat the cake for me, or split it with your friends. When you’re done, take the plate back to your mom and tell her I finished it, okay?”

Adam looked mutinous but picked up the plate, and when Crowley restarted time the boy allowed himself to be shoved unceremoniously back through the door, Dog following him with a hopeful eye on the cake. 

Crowley turned back to Dagon. “What about all the work we could do together? What about partnership? What about… love?”

Dagon arched a brow. “Oh, Crowley. Love? You can’t be serious.” Looking at Crowley’s crestfallen face, their condescension changed to pity. Or maybe contempt. “ _Crowley_. You of all demons should know better: we don’t do love. We were specifically rejected from _love_. Leave it to the angels. The word shouldn’t even be in your vocabulary.”

There was a strained, tense silence. Dagon finally shook their head. “Truth be told, I don’t think you even wanted a partnership. I think you’ve spent too long up here. You just wanted a human wedding, didn’t you? You didn’t care who it was with. Just wanted the cake and flowers and fancy clothes.” When Crowley didn’t respond, they sighed. “Look. I really am sorry, all right? I’ll see you around.” They gestured and the earth parted beneath their feet. The last thing Crowley saw was a flash of pale eyes and pointed teeth as they sank back below.

He sat down heavily and reached for the bottle of wine, taking a long swig. He watched the fireflies come out in the dusk. Blinking on, blinking off. They reminded him of the fairy lights he’d so carefully hung for his wedding reception. He’d pulled them down angrily, without a care, and now they were laying tangled in a snarl in the Bentley’s boot.

Lowering his face to his hands, Crowley began to cry.

*~*~* *~*~* *~*~*

For once Crowley didn’t care about how he looked. He didn’t care that his clothes were rumpled, his hair was a mess, and he had three days’ stubble on the face of his currently unwashed corporation.

Holiday,” he sang listlessly. “Take some time to celebrate.” It wasn’t much more than a whine, and nobody seemed pleased except for the very drunk couple shuffling at the edge of the dance floor. He could sense his bandmates glaring as they valiantly played on behind him.

“Just one day out of life.” Everywhere he looked, there was other people’s romance. An elderly couple gently squeezed hands; a pair of young women exchanged kisses; the bride and groom simpered at each other from ornate wicker chairs. “It would be. It would be ssssoooo nicccce.” He lapsed into a full-scale hiss. He managed to limp his way through the rest of the song, unsurprised at the lack of applause when it ended, and handed over the mic in relief when the best man rushed up onto the stage.

“I think the only thing we have to thank you for is that that song is over,” the best man said, in a not-really-joking sort of voice, and Crowley couldn’t bring himself to respond as he slouched over to the side of the stage. The man wasn’t wrong, and his insults couldn’t humiliate Crowley any more than Dagon already had. 

Addressing his fellow guests, the best man went on, “Cindy and Scott are off to a great start at least. I mean, Cindy showed up, so Scott’s already doing better than this guy, am I right?” He jerked his thumb at Crowley. There was a ripple of guilty giggles from the audience. Crowley supposed he shouldn’t have been shocked that in a town as small as Tadfield, word of his failed wedding had already spread.

A scuffle at the edge of the crowd caught his eye, punctuated as it was with fluffy white curls, and to his surprise Crowley saw Anathema forcefully dragging Aziraphale back through the kitchen door. If Crowley hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn there was fury on the angel’s face.

“You know, it’s funny,” said the best man. “Some people will never, ever find true love. Take, for instance, the singer here.” _We don’t do love. The word shouldn’t even be in your vocabulary_ , Crowley remembered Dagon saying. “Or basically everybody at Table 9. The closest those ugly nerds will probably ever get to romance is watching William Shatner chase alien girls on that old TV show.”

Crowley bristled. Taking potshots at his unshaven, unshowered, unloved demon arse was one thing. But Table 9 didn’t deserve any bullshit. Maybe their clothes might have been a little different, and maybe they weren’t as good at faking fancy etiquette as the rest of the guests – Crowley could sympathize – but they were quiet and polite. Crowley had seen them thanking Aziraphale as the angel served them their meals. One of them had even brought a book, and the only amusement Crowley’d had out of this entire awful evening had been watching Aziraphale try to read over the woman’s shoulder as he collected their plates.

“But Cindy and Scott beat the odds.” The best man was wrapping up his toast. “So let’s all raise a glass to the lucky couple. Scott and Cindy, everyone!” As the crowd collectively downed their champagne, Crowley reined in his temper. He could get through this. 

Scott stepped forward and gave his best man an awkward, back-thumping hug. They parted, and as Scott surveyed his guests from the stage, the microphone was still close enough to broadcast to the entire room as he shook his head at Table 9 and muttered scornfully, “This sad lot’s never gonna have anything to offer the opposite sex. Never going to better themselves.” The room went silent, except for a tipsy giggle from the bride.

Table 9 collectively cringed. The two girls who had traded kisses earlier winced and moved a little farther apart. And Crowley snapped.

His fingers.

The mic flew out of the best man’s hand and landed in Crowley’s palm with a slap. He whipped himself out of his slump and smiled silkily at Scott. “Limiting ourselves to the opposite sex, are we?” 

The two men quickly began to back away, and Scott raised his hands in placation. “Look – I didn’t mean any offense –”

“You didn’t?” Crowley advanced menacingly across the stage. “What did you mean, then, Scott?”

The bride’s father surged to his feet. “Hey, demon, I’m not paying you to ask questions. I’m paying you to sing,” he yelled. 

“Well, I have the microphone, and you don’t,” said Crowley – _the height of witty response_ , he thought, and his next words rolled out in a gritty shout – “so you will listen to _every damned word_ I have to say!” 

The audience gasped. Crowley turned his attention back to Scott. “So you feel like we should better ourselves. How precisely should I be a better demon?” He flashed Scott and his friend his most demonic face, sharp fangs and forked tongue, and savored the moment as they flinched back.

“You are the worst wedding singer in the world, buddy!” the father of the bride frantically interrupted again.

“Sir, one more outburst and I will strangle you with my microphone cord, you understand me?” The audience murmured in agitation as the bride’s father slowly resumed his seat. Crowley tilted his head inquisitively at the groom. “How about that? Murder threats improving my demonic status?”

Scott had no reply, having vacated the stage with his best man, and Crowley nodded to the bride’s father. “You’re paying me to sing, right? Here’s a little mood music for you.” Crowley whispered to the guitarist, who gleefully launched into opening chords. Beez and Newt jumped in, belatedly, as Crowley began to growl out the lyrics.

“You love her, but she loves him. And he loves somebody else – you just can’t win.” 

Aziraphale had re-emerged from the kitchen and stood staring at Crowley in dismay. Crowley definitely hadn’t meant to sing that bit in his direction.

“And so it goes, ‘til the day you die – this thing called love is gonna make you cry. I’ve had the blues, the reds and the pinks. But one thing’s for sure – ” 

“LOVE STINKS!”

“Love stinks,” agreed Crowley, “yeah, yeah.”

“LOVE STINKS!” Table 9 shouted again; Crowley was delighted with his accompaniment.

He was less delighted when he whirled to face the bride and groom and instead, to his total surprise, found himself confronted with Uriel. Their hand came toward his face and the last thing he saw was a flash of blue-white light.

*~*~*

A very long time later, Crowley woke up to knocking at the basement door. 

It was quiet at first, then firmer, then it stopped. There was a snick of the lock, and the door creaked as it swung open. Unfamiliar footsteps descended the stairs. He heard a tentative “Hello?”

He thought he knew that voice, but he could only pull the covers more firmly over himself. He had the most terrible all-over body ache he could remember having since – well, since his Fall, if he thought about it, and the pain pulsed in his face until he thought his eyes would fall out of his head. He shut them more tightly.

“Hello? Crowley?”

 _That’s the angel_ , he registered, so slowly, and he carefully sat up, reaching for his sunglasses. They were there on the nightstand, but he didn’t remember taking them off. “I’m here. Why are you here?”

Aziraphale was a pale blur in the dark of the basement. “Mrs. Young called Anathema, and Anathema called me. You’ve been down here for over a week.”

“A week?!” A long sleep wasn’t unusual for him, but definitely not in the middle of wedding season, when the band had at least two gigs a weekend.

“Well, yes. None of us had seen you since… well, since that fiasco at the wedding.” 

Crowley struggled to think. He couldn’t quite recall what had happened before he woke up in his own bed, alone, with his whole demonic corporation pounding in agony. “Dagon. Dagon didn’t come.”

“Yes, I know,” said Aziraphale sympathetically. “But the thing is, you see… it was the next one that was the problem. I don’t think it was such a good idea for you to try to sing at another wedding so soon afterwards.”

Hands to his temples, Crowley turned to the angel in astonishment. “Another wedding? What happened? I can’t remember a bloody thing.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, settling himself gingerly on the end of Crowley’s bed, “if you don’t remember, I’m not sure I should tell you. It might be upsetting.”

“I’m sure it will be. Out with it.” 

“You sang a few songs, but you were so sad. Just – just miserable,” the angel said unhappily. “And then the groom and his best man spoke, and – well –” Aziraphale stammered, looking apprehensively at Crowley, “you rather lost your temper. You were storming around, shouting at people, screaming something that Newt said was by the J. Geils Band? I’m afraid I’m not up on your bebop.”

Bebop. “The J. Geils Band? No wonder I was in a mood,” Crowley said. _Angel in a centerfold_ , his brain piped unhelpfully, and he ran an irritable hand through his hair.

“No. ‘Love Stinks,’ I believe it was called, at least as often as you kept saying it.”

Crowley went cold beneath the ache in his throbbing head. 

“You flashed a snake face and threatened to strangle the bride’s father. You were very agitated – you wouldn’t calm down.” All Crowley could do was cringe as Aziraphale continued. “Uriel finally had to come out from the kitchen and – and smite you.” Crowley gaped, and Aziraphale frowned. “Yes, they smote you. You were quite out of control, you realize. It was… just a tiny smiting.”

“A tiny smiting.” No wonder he couldn’t remember anything, and his corporation felt like it had been turned inside out and run through a wood chipper. He was less concerned about the smiting though, since he seemed to have survived, than he was about the wedding he’d botched. If he’d cocked it up badly enough – which seemed likely, given what he’d heard – the band would be out of work, and even the little chaos he’d been sowing would be out of his reach. _Not a soul to show for it_.

“Yes, well. Anathema told me Beelzebub was doing the singing for the rest of your bookings until you recovered.” Crowley was only mildly relieved. He shuddered to think of what Beez was going to extract from him as payback.

“Don’t feel too bad about all this, though,” Aziraphale said conspiratorially. “I don’t think I’ve seen humans in Tadfield deserve it more. The best man and the groom both were perfectly beastly to the lovely people at Table 9. Making fun of how they looked, what they liked…” the angel trailed off, and his mouth tightened. Crowley supposed he knew all about how much it hurt to be the butt of the joke. Aziraphale managed to crack a weak smile. “The silver lining to everything is that while everyone was fussing over you on the floor, the Table 9 guests all had miraculous escapes out the staff entrance.”

“Glad to be of service, I suppose,” Crowley said wryly. “And just who told them about the staff entrance?”

Somehow the angel’s laughter didn’t hurt Crowley’s pounding head. “I’m sure I don’t know. Probably the same individual who told them where they could get a whole tray of spinach puffs and a case of the white wine on their way out the door.” 

Aziraphale gave a self-satisfied little wiggle, and Crowley laughed, charmed. He threw back the covers and stood woozily, realizing that whoever had gotten him to bed – Newt, most likely – had left him in his gig suit, and it was crumpled almost beyond recognition. Wincing with the ache in his smited joints, he began to strip off the suit without thinking until he saw the angel’s eyes widen and look away. 

He staggered toward the loo as Aziraphale abruptly rose from the bed, busily inspecting the basement apartment. “Your space here is very minimalist. A bit like Heaven, but darker. Is this what it looks like down in Hell?”

“What? No. I’ve got better lighting, more tasteful furniture, and no signs anywhere telling you not to lick the walls,” said Crowley indignantly through the bathroom door. He splashed water over his face and rinsed out his mouth, tossing the suit into a corner to be miracled tidy later. He found a neatly folded stack of laundry and grabbed a pair of black briefs and an old Kinks shirt, reflecting as he pulled them on that this might be the first time in millennia his past self had actually been helpful to his present. From the bedroom came the sound of curtains opening, and when he came out of the bathroom there was sunshine spilling through the little basement windows. 

“’Tasteful’ must be relative,” Aziraphale said, wrinkling his nose at Crowley’s favorite gilded chair. He turned away hurriedly as Crowley bent over to pull a pair of jeans out of a drawer and went into the next room. Crowley heard him gasp. 

Wriggling the tight denim over his hips, Crowley peered through the doorway to find Aziraphale standing enraptured in the middle of his plants. The sunlight brightened their glossy green leaves, and the angel ran his fingers carefully through the foliage. “You grew all these? How can they look so beautiful, with just those tiny windows for light?”

“I’ve got some lamps to help with that. Besides, they stay perfect for me if they know what’s good for them.” Crowley raised his hand to gently touch the flowers on a rosebush climbing improbably up the basement wall. There were just a few roses left over from – from a couple weeks back. A black petal fell from a bloom, and for once he let its transgression slide, staring into its scarlet center. 

A warm, sympathetic hand covered his and he turned his head to meet the angel’s big dark eyes. He could have sworn they were blue, but here in the dim lighting they looked to be a smoky grey. Changing like the ocean, or the sky before a storm.

Aziraphale cleared his throat and patted Crowley’s hand solicitously, moving away. “Anathema and Mrs. Young sent me down here to fetch you. Humans have concerns about picking locks on demonic lairs, if you can imagine.”

“Well, you’ve fetched me. What are you supposed to do with me now?” The comment was perhaps a bit more loaded than Crowley had intended.

“…I’m not sure, precisely.” Aziraphale regarded him uncertainly. “Anathema was going to meet me for brunch, but she had to bow out. Perhaps you’d like to join me in her stead?” He looked Crowley up and down appraisingly. “Mrs. Young was very concerned that you haven’t been eating, and I can’t say she doesn’t have a point.” 

“Well, now that I’ve been on the receiving end of one, I have to say that smitings don’t do much to improve the appetite,” Crowley said after a moment of contemplation. When Aziraphale’s face fell, he quickly added, “But nothing wrong with going along for the company. I mean, if you didn’t want to eat alone.”

Aziraphale perked up like a freshly watered daisy. “Really?” Crowley nodded carefully, mindful of his aching head, and as he pulled on his boots that warm smile began to glow on the angel’s face. 

_Wouldn’t need the grow lamps any more if I could just keep him looking like that_ , Crowley thought.


	3. Too Shy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over brunch, Crowley agrees to help Aziraphale with his wedding planning. Beelzebub, however, isn't thrilled with Crowley's attitude toward his musical commitments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates to this fic have been on Tuesdays, but the next one may take a bit longer as I adjust to the challenges of teleworking at home and other issues this spring. But updates will continue!
> 
> Chapter titles for this fic come from songs on The Wedding Singer soundtracks (Original and More Music).  
> Chapter 3: “Too Shy” by Kajagoogoo.
> 
> Many thanks, as always, to my marvelous beta Anti_kate.

Aziraphale scanned the menu, his heart and stomach in turmoil. He did so love the breakfast here, but he supposed Gabriel was right; he was soft, and one of tomorrow’s appointments was to try on dresses and suits. Flipping the menu closed, he looked at the basic offerings on the back. A single egg; a slice of toast; a cup of fruit. 

A vision of crepes obscured the sad list, and Aziraphale looked up at the demon, who had slid the menu of specials in front of him. “Look at that. You can get them with three different fruit sauces _or_ with chocolate.”

“Crowley. Are you _tempting_ me?”

Crowley quirked a smile. “Maybe a little. A _tiny_ temptation, yeah? No worse than a _tiny_ smiting. Besides, Pam here needs to get on her way.” He nodded at the impatient waitress, who’d already taken Crowley’s order. Aziraphale had insisted he get something with calories – “you have to nourish the physical corporation at least once in a while, Crowley” – so he’d asked for a Bloody Mary along with his black coffee. 

A moment more of hesitation, and Aziraphale exhaled. One meal wasn’t going to make a difference either way. “I’ll have the strawberry crepes. With whipped cream, please. And a screwdriver.” 

Crowley’s laughter rang out as Pam left with the menus. “When you go, angel, you go all out, don’t you?” Aziraphale scowled, wondering if this was mockery – _a bit unfair, temptation considered_ – but Crowley seemed truly delighted. Gabriel wouldn’t have been so pleased. He couldn’t ever imagine Gabriel succumbing to the temptation of a wily demon. Or having brunch with one. Or having brunch with _him,_ for that matter.

“ _Please,_ Crowley. Orange juice is quite healthy. Lots of vitamins,” he said archly, pushing away his little interior hurt. 

“And the vodka?” 

“Potatoes, I think? Or grain. Nutritional either way.”

“Nourishing the physical corporation, then,” said Crowley gleefully. 

He felt his smile go a bit strained. “Quite,” he agreed, sitting back in his chair and tugging down his waistcoat, feeling a surge of anxiety at its snugness about his middle. “Gabriel isn’t wrong. I indulge this corporation a bit too often, I suppose.”

Crowley frowned. Carefully, he said, “You shouldn’t listen to what that – ah – what Gabriel was telling you.” He shook his head at Aziraphale’s skeptical face and went on, “There’s no problem at all with your physical corporation. It’s lovely. Suits you.” The sunshine caught fire in his red hair as he settled back in his seat, and for a second there was a glint of warm yellow from behind those dark glasses.

Aziraphale was suddenly struck by the realization that he was straying quite close to flirtation. With a very attractive and in fact a now very _single_ demon.

Their drinks arrived, and he took advantage of the interruption to change the subject. The tang of orange juice tripping over his tongue, he said, “So tell me about your wedding singing. Not a common demonic occupation, I believe?”

“May not be _this_ demon’s occupation any longer,” Crowley sighed, taking a long swallow of his coffee. “Not after the last time, I guess. Probably be all right though, if it doesn’t work out. I mean, I like it and all, but I can’t really keep doing it forever.”

“Whyever not?” 

“Not splashy enough for – for Hell,” Crowley stumbled. After a pause, he went on, “They want big temptations. Deadlier sins, more important targets. They like the bigger efforts, I guess.”

 _Think_ I’d _like the bigger Efforts with this one too,_ Aziraphale thought, and gasped aloud in shock at himself. Misreading Aziraphale’s expression, the demon hurried on, “Not that I’d do anything like that here in Tadfield, mind you. But I am still scouting out the place. Keeping an eye out for new opportunities. Besides, the humans get up to plenty of mischief without any help from me, so I like to stick close and see if there’s anything I can claim credit for.”

“Is that why you’re living in a human basement? The Youngs seem like a lovely family, but perhaps not the sort to dabble with demons.”

Crowley chuckled. “Have you _met_ Adam?” 

Pam appeared with Aziraphale’s crepes, and departed again so quickly that it took him a moment to realize she hadn’t left any flatware. He turned to wave her back, but she’d already disappeared into the brunch crowd. “Drat,” he said ruefully, “these really are too messy to eat by hand.” He tore off a small bit of crepe anyway and dipped it in the strawberry compote. It was delicious but left his fingers sticky; as he licked them clean, he realized Crowley was watching him intently. He flushed, but couldn’t resist sucking the last bit of sauce off his thumb. He thought he saw a flicker behind the sunglasses and hastily folded his hands back on the table. Crowley must be appalled at his lack of manners.

Sure enough, the demon stood suddenly. “People can’t eat without forks. Angels either. I’ll see about finding you one,” he said, plunging into the thick of the other diners without a backward glance. 

Aziraphale sighed. What was the matter with him? His thoughts about Crowley were entirely inappropriate. And he never lowered himself to the gaucherie of eating with his fingers. Determined to behave himself, he reached into his satchel and brought out the shiny gold notebook Anathema had bought him for keeping track of his wedding plans. _The wedding. His wedding. His wedding to Gabriel. Remember?_

He had barely cracked it open before a napkin unrolled in front of him, a knife and fork clattering to the table. “There you go, you barbarian. Bit less of a mess now, I think,” announced Crowley, sprawling back into his chair and knocking back half of his Bloody Mary. He gave Aziraphale a half-smile. 

Aziraphale quickly closed the notebook, but it was too late. “What’s that you’ve got, then?” Crowley demanded.

“Just – just some notes I’d written down. And appointments. Anathema and I were supposed to go over it today, since all of them are tomorrow. Things for the wedding,” he said, worrying that Crowley might find mention of weddings painful and internally berating himself for his insensitivity. But Crowley only tilted his head inquisitively.

“Mind if I take a look?”

“If it really wouldn’t bother you,” Aziraphale said doubtfully, and when the demon held out a hand he passed the notebook over. He watched as Crowley began to skim the pages, but when there were no immediate outbursts of tears or anger he draped the napkin in his lap, picked up the knife and fork, and began to eat. The whipped cream _was_ starting to run, after all.

He lost himself for a bite or two in the warm sweetness of the strawberries, and when he opened his eyes Crowley was watching him again, drumming his fingers on the notebook. Blushing yet again – _Lord,_ would his cheeks never cool? – he asked, “Is there a problem?”

“Not really. Just curious. So Uriel’s doing the food?”

“Yes. They’ve been Gabriel’s colleague for forever, of course, along with being my current employer, so they were the obvious choice. They said they didn’t have time for an appointment, but I know their food is good. It’ll have to be a buffet though; between myself and Anathema, they’ll be down two servers.” He took another bite of his crepes, paused to savor.

“Probably all for the best. Demon caterers tend to have a little more variety on the menu than the angelic ones, but odds are about fifty-fifty you’d be shitting yourself underneath your pretty dress before the reception was over.” Crowley eyed him thoughtfully. “If you’re wearing a dress, that is. Figured that out for the big day?”

“Not yet. I’ve got an appointment with Eden Bridal to try some things on, though.”

“Yeah, Eve’ll take care of you. She goes in more for natural designs – leaves, flowers, that sort of thing – but if that’s not your style she’ll still have a lot of stock to choose from.” Crowley frowned. “The photographer’s name is Agnes Nutter? Don’t think I’ve seen her work before. Make sure you ask to see samples, and ask about pricing for prints if you want ‘em.”

Aziraphale worked on his crepes as Crowley continued down the list. “Hmmm. St. Beryl’s Bakery. I thought they usually did more baby showers, birthdays, that sort of thing. They’re supposed to be all right, though. You’ll have fun tasting the samples.” He skimmed another line, stopped, reread. His eyes widened in disbelief. _“Ligur and Hastur?!”_

Swallowing hastily, Aziraphale said, “I’m so sorry! I’d forgotten. It’s just that… well, I didn’t think it was right to ask you to play again, no matter what you said before.”

“Don’t want me to make a scene like I did at the last one,” Crowley said grimly. “I understand.”

“No, my dear, that’s not it at all!” Aziraphale cried. In his distress he reached across the table, but pulled back, catching himself before he could touch Crowley’s hand. “I didn’t want you to be hurt. To have your face rubbed in someone else’s wedding, with what happened to you before – I couldn’t stand the thought of doing that to you. I didn’t even mean for you to see that notebook.”

Crowley ignored him. “I didn’t even know Hastur and Ligur were still doing wedding music. Who’re you taking with you to see them? I can’t say I much fancy you going by yourself.” 

“ _Really,_ Crowley.” Aziraphale scoffed. Inside, he was confused and more than a little touched by Crowley’s concern for him, but he only said airily, “If you can come to an angel’s house party, I think I can manage meeting a few demons at a reception hall. Besides, this is a professional visit, and I won’t be by myself. Anathema’s coming along for the whole day.”

The demon snorted. “Fat lot of good a human’ll do you in a pinch. Although if it’s Anathema you might be all right.” He considered for a moment. “You know, I could come with you too. If you like.”

Aziraphale was stunned. 

“Just to make sure everything’s on the up-and-up,” Crowley said quickly. “Besides, it’s good to scope out the competition. And maybe trip them up on their own audio wiring.”

Aziraphale watched the demon drain the last of his drink and fiddle with the empty glass. For the eternal life of him, he couldn’t understand why Crowley was making these kinds of offers. Finally, he said hesitantly, “You’re sure? It _would_ be helpful to have you along. You know so much more about this wedding business than I do.”

Crowley nodded. “Sure, angel. I can even come for the whole day, if you needed. Least I could do after you brought me up out of that basement this morning.” Before Aziraphale could recover from his surprise, Crowley went on irritably. “Black Crown Flowers. Really, angel? Their stuff’ll be shriveled before it leaves the store.” 

Taken aback by Crowley’s venom, Aziraphale said crossly, “Well. Do you have any better ideas?”

“Sure I do.” Crowley grinned. “Me.”

Aziraphale put down his fork with a harsh thump, and felt a pang of guilt as the grin faded from Crowley’s face. “Why, Crowley?” he demanded. “Why are you doing this? Why are you doing this to yourself?” _Why are you doing this to yourself for_ me?

Looking away, Crowley shrugged flippantly. But as the seconds stretched out and Aziraphale remained stubbornly still, waiting, the demon sighed, his face unreadable behind the sunglasses. “Because,” he finally said, “if I don’t get to have a happy ending, I’d at least like to help someone else with theirs.” 

Aziraphale could only stare, utterly unprepared for the waves of emotion that flooded him. Sorrow, sympathy, guilt. And most astonishing of all, a rush of deep affection and protectiveness – for a demon! – that left him breathless.

_This was not all how I’d imagined today would go._

He still hadn’t responded, and Crowley began to shift restlessly in the chair, clearly regretting his words. “Ah – look, angel, I’m sorry, let me think a minute, maybe there’s someone else – “

“No,” Aziraphale interrupted him softly. “You’d be perfect.”

He reached across the table, and this time he didn’t pull back. “And you know, you shouldn’t give up. On your own happy ending, that is.” His fingertips just touched Crowley’s wrist.

The plastic tray with the check banged down on the table.

They both jumped back, startled, but by the time they looked up Pam was gone again.

Aziraphale knew he had to steer the conversation back to safer waters. “I’m not sure it’s any better to have you arranging my flowers than singing at my reception,” he said lightly. “Besides, I don’t recall ‘florist’ as an item on your resume.” 

Crowley was clearly still out of sorts. “It’s what I’ve always wanted to do, you know. When the weddings wear out and the tempting isn’t enough anymore.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Just find a little cottage with a garden. A greenhouse in the back. Grow my flowers, maybe a few vegetables, plant a fruit tree. Pull the weeds and chase the squirrels away.” 

He took a deep breath, and when he looked back at Aziraphale his face was deliberately cheerful. “But I’ve got flowers growing now, don’t I? What are your wedding colors going to be?”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure he could cope with this degree of whiplash, but since it seemed to be headed back in the direction he wanted it to go, he went along. “Um. Purple and silver.”

“Pretty enough. Not sure it’s quite your palette, though. What about blue and gold?”

“Purple and silver,” he said firmly. “To set off Gabriel’s eyes.”

A moment of silence, then a hum of acquiescence. “Purple it is then. I think I can come up with something. Hydrangeas? Sweet peas? Tinted roses would be easy, I’ve already got some, but they’re a bit overdone for weddings.”

“Roses would be lovely,” Aziraphale said, “and whatever else you’d like to put in. If your poor plants think they can change pace so quickly. Can you even get anything to bloom that fast this time of year?”

“I can,” Crowley said, with vicious confidence. He pushed back his chair and stood up, briskly snatching the check tray. “My treat, angel. Not sure about the tip this time, though. Service was abysmal.” He headed toward the register. “Lift home?” he asked Aziraphale over his shoulder.

Aziraphale had no choice but to follow, protesting, in his wake.

*~*~* *~*~* *~*~*

The Bentley pulled up to Gabriel’s house. Crowley was pleased with himself for having kept his pace to a sedate 40 kilometers over the speed limit. None of his passengers ever admired his self-discipline, however, and the angel was no exception. Aziraphale huddled in the passenger seat, one hand clutching the door and the other hand braced on the dash; when the car slowed to a stop, it took him a moment to recover. Trying to hide his exhale of relief, he turned to Crowley and said (insincerely, Crowley suspected), “Thank you for the ride, Crowley.” With a much warmer and more genuine smile, he added, “And thank you for brunch.”

“You’re welcome. For both. What time are we starting up with tomorrow’s shenanigans, then?”

“Anathema refused to let me schedule anything before 10 o’clock, so that’s when we’ll all be meeting at Ms. Nutter’s.” If Crowley could have showered Anathema with blessings, he would have done it then and there. “Will that work for you?”

“Only way it could be better was if it was after noon,” Crowley said, but when he saw Aziraphale’s brow knit he hastily went on, “But 10 is absolutely fine.” Not wanting to spend more time in Gabriel’s driveway than absolutely necessary, he decided to make his excuses and his escape. “Right. Well, I’m afraid the plants and I have to have some serious conversations about updates to their schedule. See you in the morning, angel.”

Aziraphale sat for a moment longer as if he had something more he wanted to say, toying with the strap of his satchel, but finally opened the door and stepped out of the car. He glanced back over his shoulder only once, giving Crowley a small wave before opening Gabriel’s front door and slipping inside.

Crowley maneuvered the Bentley back onto the street and headed back to the Youngs’, lost in thought. Mostly thoughts about red strawberry compote on pink angel tongues, and _dammit_ he had other things he had to get to. Groveling to Beelzebub. Informing the plants of their new responsibilities. Working on his plans for demonic activities.

In short, a plentiful list of things that should have higher priority than pottering around Tadfield for someone else’s wedding appointments – an _angel’s_ wedding appointments – less than three weeks after his own ceremony had imploded so spectacularly. 

He thought, reluctantly, of his own wedding…

…Dagon hadn’t been any more interested in the arrangements than Gabriel; like Aziraphale, Crowley had roped poor Anathema into most of the planning and legwork. It had been a bit lonely even with her company, though, and Crowley had meant what he’d said over brunch. He wanted to help _someone_ have a happy ending, even if it couldn’t be himself. 

If he had to be honest, he found himself actually looking forward to the next day. Well, not the audience with Hastur and Ligur. But he wanted to see Aziraphale twirling about in silks and satins, and help him dicker with the photographer. And he especially wanted to be there to see the angel tasting cakes. Maybe the buttercream would be thick and rich, and maybe he’d get some on his fingers, lick them clean…

A cold shock hit him in the pit of his stomach, dashing out the heat that had been building there. _You just wanted a human wedding, didn’t you?_ he heard Dagon asking. _Didn’t care who it was with. Just wanted the cake and flowers and fancy clothes._

Maybe Dagon had been right. Two weeks out from their split, give or take, and here he was building castles in the sky, entertaining fantasies of strawberry sauce and buttercream and human wedding domesticity with someone he barely knew. An angel; the fiancé of an archangel, matter of fact, an archangel who wasn’t likely to take kindly to demonic intrusion. All his daydreaming of today and tomorrow suddenly seemed like a terrible idea. _Was_ he just trying to fill a void with the first face that gave him a friendly smile? 

_Such a smile though._

He pulled the Bentley up to the curb in front of the Youngs’ house and killed the engine. Jingling his keys restlessly, he cut across the lawn to the little side door that led to the basement, but when he rounded the corner he skidded to a halt so fast his boots left divots in the grass.

Beelzebub was leaning against the door frame, arms folded. Face aggressively neutral. Beside them, Newt sat on the stoop, toying with a Rubik’s Cube. 

_Well,_ thought Crowley as he struggled to maintain his composure, _guess I’m about to check the groveling off my list at least._ “Hello, Beez. Newt. I understand I owe you both one.”

“Quite a bit more than one, Crowley,” Beelzebub said, pushing themselves upright to glare at him from a better angle. “Do you know what the rest of this summer is going to be like? The only way we could keep everyone from cancelling our gigs is by promising you wouldn’t be at any more weddings. And you know what? All we’re doing is weddings. We’ve only got the one birthday party out of the next six weeks of events.”

“And Beez just – um – doesn’t get the same reaction from an audience as you do, Crowley,” Newt added carefully. “For better or for worse.”

Crowley ran his hands through his hair. “You’re not wrong to be mad, but I don’t really know what you two want me to do here. I got myself smited in front of half the town, for fuck’s sake. Don’t know that there’s much more _to_ be done.” He sat down heavily next to Newt. Beelzebub scowled.

“We can make it work, I guess,” they allowed. “But Hell’s probably going to want to pull you out of here if you can’t keep up the work quotas. Dagon hasn’t been doing you any favors running their mouth downstairs, and I have to say they’re not wrong; a lot of your recent stuff has been pretty small potatoes, as the humans say. And while I have to admit that on a personal level I found your last wedding performance deeply satisfactory, I can’t see any chance of a repeat with you taking yourself out of the wedding scene in such a spectacular fashion.”

Crowley sighed. “I may not be singing much for a while, you’re right on that count – but I’ve still got some things I’m working on. If you can hold down the next few weeks for me, I’ll have time to get some more ideas off the ground. Book up all the pubs with stag dos and hen parties. Up the alcohol content and set off some scandals. Do you know how pissed Tadfield locals would be if we keep working up the wedding tourists? For starters, I bet that Tyler guy will keel over from rage on the spot, and Hell’ll have him for sure.” 

Newt looked appalled – as if he was suddenly realizing he was the only human in their band, and was reconsidering the wisdom of his current professional associations – and Crowley hurried on. “Look, this whole wedding music thing will blow over by the end of the summer. Maybe we can look into some niche weddings later. People who like getting screamed at. J Geils Band superfans.” 

Beez seemed unconvinced.

Crowley flailed for something else to offer. “Besides, I’m exploring a new avenue in the wedding business. Tinkering with flowers. We don’t want to kill anyone with allergies or anything, that won’t get us repeat customers, but maybe try some nasty messages in flower languages, something like that.” Thinking of Aziraphale, he quickly backpedaled. “The first one I’m doing is an angels’ wedding, gotta behave myself for that one – I’m not in any hurry to get smited again, but –”

“An angels’ wedding,” interrupted Beelzebub, eyebrows shooting up. “You mean the Archangel Gabriel’s?”

 _Archangel Gabriel._ Archangel. Crowley fought to keep his face neutral. “That’s the one.” 

“Interesting,” Beelzebub said thoughtfully. “Can’t say I ever thought Gabriel would have demons involved with anything he’s doing, but I guess some angels get off on slumming it with Hell every now and then.” _Do they now,_ thought Crowley. “Nice work with his temptation, by the way. I’d forgotten about that bit. That should keep you in Hell’s good graces for a while yet. Was that part of this new flower thing?” 

“Er – something like that,” Crowley mumbled. 

Beez studied him a moment. “Well. It’s not my problem one way or the other. What _is_ my problem is getting us through the rest of the summer. I need all the set lists and client requests. Drop them off at rehearsal tomorrow.”

Crowley could not; their usual practice run was right smack in the middle of Aziraphale’s appointment lineup. Nor did Crowley particularly want to tell Beelzebub why he was otherwise occupied. As he began to scramble for an excuse, Newt said uncomfortably, “Ah. About tomorrow, Beez. I’m actually going to have to bow out.”

Both demons turned to him in astonishment. Taking a deep breath, Newt awkwardly went on, “Anathema invited me to come along to some appointments tomorrow. Also for Gabriel’s wedding, actually. But with his partner. Aziraphale, I think his name is?”

Swallowing back his surprise, Crowley rushed to take advantage of this unexpected windfall. He’d have a lot less of a hard time explaining the day if he could pass Anathema off as the source of his invitation. “Yeah, me too. We’ll be booked up all day. Photographer, bakery, dress shop.” He didn’t feel it would be prudent to mention Hastur and Ligur. “It’ll give me a chance to see some of the rest of it, figure out if there’s anything else I can try dipping my toes into.” Crowley could feel Newt staring.

Beelzebub looked back and forth between the two of them suspiciously. “Aziraphale. Is that the one with fluffy white hair? I think I’ve seen him waiting tables. I can’t believe Gabriel’s letting him work for Uriel. But… what I _really_ can’t believe is that this Anathema human is poaching half this band to be an angel’s errand boys.” They shook their head in disgust.

“Just for tomorrow,” Newt said quickly. “I can come an hour early next time.” He brightened. “Speaking of being there early, maybe you could meet up with us in the morning and Crowley could get you the stuff then?”

Crowley’s brain gave an internal shriek as Beelzebub eyed him thoughtfully. Beez having anything to do with the angel was the last thing Crowley wanted, and his heart plummeted as they nodded. “That works. When and where?”

“Ten o’clock. Agnes Nutter’s photography studio,” Crowley hissed through gritted teeth.

Beelzebub looked at him coolly. “I’ll see you there.” They straightened, strode past Crowley, and vanished around the corner of the house.

Newt was eyeing him with suspicion and – was that a hint of disappointment? “So… Anathema invited you along too?”

“Not exactly. I – ah – ran into Aziraphale, and he asked me to come along. Give some input since I know the wedding scene. Was just easier to not have to tell Beez about being so popular with the other side all of a sudden.” He grinned apologetically at Newt. “Sorry to cut into your Anathema time.”

Newt did his best to shrug nonchalantly. “It’s not like it was going to be a date or anything. With Aziraphale there, I mean.” He gave Crowley a side-eye. “So this Aziraphale thing. Is it? A thing, that is? With all the flirting and tempting at that party, and now he’s inviting you to a day on the town?” Crowley looked away, and Newt frowned. “Are you sure you know what you’re getting into, with all these angels?”

It was Crowley’s turn to shrug, and he sat fidgeting in sullen silence until Newt gave up. “I get why you didn’t want Beez to know who invited you along, but – just don’t be surprised if you get yourself another smiting.” With some effort, he stuffed the Rubik’s Cube awkwardly in his pocket and rose. “I’ll see you tomorrow at 10, then. You and Aziraphale.” With a half-smile, he added, “And Beelzebub.” 

Crowley glared sourly in Newt’s wake as the human departed.

*~*~*

Even though they didn’t extend the same courtesy to him, Crowley didn’t want to bother the Youngs with anything loud, but he sometimes played his acoustic guitar when he needed to think. He strummed it now, going through what he thought were random chords until he realized he was playing the Velvet Underground’s “Pale Blue Eyes”. 

He irritably put the guitar back in its rack and, lunging hips-first out of his chair, began to pace. Whether or not Dagon was right, whether or not he just wanted to plug any random warm body into a role ( _how warm would the angel’s body be?_ he wondered), he found he couldn’t shake thoughts of Aziraphale from his mind. The white-blond curls, the sea-changing eyes, the sunny smile. It broke him a little inside to think of Aziraphale yoked to that prick Gabriel for the rest of time.

 _It always comes back around to bite me when I least expect it._ If he hadn’t successfully tempted Gabriel into trying to one-up Crowley’s own wedding efforts – _successfully tempted an_ archangel, _stick_ that _in your small potatoes pipe and smoke it, Dagon,_ he thought savagely – this wedding wouldn’t be happening at all.

Maybe he could fuck it all up. He was pretty good at fucking things up even if he wasn’t trying, and if he was going around helping with all the preparations, he’d have plenty of chances to screw up on purpose. Make orders get lost. Cancel reservations. Piss off Ligur and Hastur until they refused to play. _That_ part would be fun, at least.

As he considered the possibilities, his heart cracked thinking about Aziraphale’s embarrassment. The other angels were already scornful of his interest in human matters, and if he’d had such a hard time from them already, Crowley couldn’t imagine what it would be like if the whole wedding thing went to shit. Weddings could be dicey to pull together at the best of times, and if it went too far south, Gabriel might even call the whole thing off.

Crowley stopped. Straightened. Thought.

And then resumed his pacing. For all the short time they’d known each other, and possibly from the very first moment they’d spoken, Crowley had known he absolutely wouldn’t be able to do anything that might bring the slightest cloud across the angel’s face. The only tempting he thought he’d ever want to do in regards to Aziraphale (aside from the crepes, he supposed, and Satan, what a lovely reward that had gotten him) was to coax out that sunbeam smile.

Well. Maybe not the _only_ tempting.

Feeling restlessly helpless, Crowley cast about for something concrete he could do. He couldn’t bring himself to write up a report on Aziraphale’s brunch temptation this morning, much as it would make Beelzebub happy. Instead, he strode in to survey his plants. Some of them would have to go to make room for the new pots of purple flowers he was going to be starting. 

He gestured at the roses and, simultaneously, they all dropped their black and scarlet petals. He whisked them into a jar with vague thoughts of bathtubs or bedsheets ( _forcefully_ vague thoughts) and pulled out his shears. As he cut away the remaining buds, he informed the plants sternly of their new deadlines. And the new tints he expected them to produce. He hesitated, dithering a bit before finally forcing them to bloom in a hue rather closer to a deep blue than the purple Aziraphale had requested. 

Starting the flower work. That’s all he was doing. And anyway, it wasn’t as if he’d been given a color swatch, now, was it? He refused to take any blame for having opinions about whose eyes he wanted his flowers to set off. 

  
  



	4. You Make My Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A busy day of wedding appointments - photographer, bakery, formalwear, and a musical performance by a familiar duo - is wrapped up with a conversation in the park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titles for this fic come from songs on The Wedding Singer soundtracks (Original and More Music).  
> Chapter 4: “You Make My Dreams” by Hall & Oates.
> 
> Gratitude to my excellent beta Anti_kate!

Crowley was awake and out of bed far earlier than he would have otherwise preferred. If preferences were taken into account, in fact, he wouldn’t have been up for another decade at least. Maybe even a century or two. But he’d tossed restlessly all night, waking up hourly, and at six he gave up on sleep completely, working out his frustration with a ruthless early morning plant pruning. By nine he was showered, dressed, and heading out the door.

He wasn’t sure what he thought he would get out of being there ahead of time. A chance to scout out the photographer’s business; a chance to grab an extra cup of coffee from the overpriced shop three doors down; a chance to collect his thoughts and brace himself for the morning ahead.

What he actually got when he arrived forty minutes early was Aziraphale, seated primly on a bench outside the photography studio, pert nose buried in a book. Crowley saw him from half a block away – there was really no mistaking that fluffy platinum halo of curls. Crowley’s stomach flipped when he saw him. He debated passing the angel by to park another two blocks down, where he could pace and work himself into an anxious frenzy in peace, but ultimately decided that an unnecessary saunter back to the photographer’s would be off-brand. Not without an appreciative audience, anyway. 

Instead he parked the Bentley underneath a “30-minute-parking-only” sign. He’d thought Aziraphale would hear the car door shutting or his footfalls on the pavement, but the angel was so engrossed in his paperback that he didn’t notice Crowley’s approach. Crowley took a deep breath and said, “Fancy running into you this early!”

Aziraphale yelped and dropped his book. Bending to pick it up, Crowley got a glimpse of a passionately embracing couple on the cover along with the name of an author he didn’t recognize. Which could be almost any author, really. Crowley wasn’t much of a reader. “Who’s Georgette Heyer, then?” 

The angel snatched the paperback from Crowley’s hands; he took a moment to carefully stow it away in his satchel. “She was a fiction writer,” he said haughtily, “and I’m evaluating her work for historical accuracy.” Crowley had seen Aziraphale blush a surprising number of times in the few days they’d known each other, but he hadn’t seen quite this shade of ferocious scarlet. “What are you doing here, Crowley?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Got tired of waiting around,” Crowley told him truthfully. He was gleefully preparing to needle the angel over his _historical fiction_ when Aziraphale deflated with a sigh.

“Gabriel had to drop me off early on his way out. I’m not sure what he had to rush off to so soon, but… well, I know he’s terribly busy.” He looked sadly down at the hands he had started to wring, then glanced back up at Crowley and forced a smile. “So I thought I’d catch up a bit on my reading.” He paused, the smile warming up as he added shyly, “But it was a bit lonely. I’m glad you showed up, Crowley.”

Before the demon could respond, a bell tinkled and they both looked around to see the door to the photography studio opening. Out stepped an older woman with long hair and a stern face. “You’re my 9:30?” she asked, looking back and forth between them.

“Er – no. I’m your 10 o’clock, I think,” said Aziraphale, standing up from the bench. “You’re Ms. Nutter, yes? I’m Aziraphale.”

“No mistaking that name. You’re definitely my 9:30. Come on in.” She beckoned to them and disappeared back through the door. Exchanging puzzled glances, Aziraphale and Crowley followed.

The studio was filled with portraits. Wedding couples, families, children, pets, large groups of laughing people; Crowley even saw a few demons he knew, and a pair of angels with wings out. Aziraphale flipped through a photo album with great interest until Agnes waved the pair of them over to her desk. “So when is the big day?” she asked.

Beaming, Aziraphale said, “Three weeks from tomorrow.” Crowley looked away, not able to watch him glowing for that git of an archangel. “That won’t be too soon, will it?” the angel asked worriedly.

“I think I might be able to accommodate that schedule,” Agnes said after a moment of thought. She pulled out sample prints and albums. Crowley tuned them out as they began to discuss prices and particulars, and toyed with the ends of his silver tie. Three weeks wasn’t a hell of a lot of time before Aziraphale would be shackled to Gabriel for… well. For a very long while. He cursed himself again for having pressed the issue. Watching the angel chatter and dicker, he imagined what it would be like if he was here as Aziraphale’s partner instead of his friend. If a photograph of the two of them was hung on this wall – dancing at their reception, maybe, or kissing under his roses. 

Coming back to himself, he composed his face back to neutrality as Aziraphale and Agnes came to an agreement, signed contracts, and shook hands. 

Agnes sat back in her chair and eyed them speculatively. “You know, I work with a lot of people in this business – but I think I can say you’re some of the rare ones who look truly happy. The two of you are going to make it. I know, believe me.”

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged a glance. _Was that a hint of wistfulness?_ Crowley decided he was projecting his own feelings on the situation. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Er. Well. We’re not actually getting married.”

__

“That’s right. He’s here for moral support. We’re – we’re just friends. Fraternizing, really,” Aziraphale chortled nervously. Crowley scowled. The angel wasn’t wrong, but it stung just the same.

__

Agnes gave them a serene smile. “I can just look at a couple and tell right away that they’re going to be together forever. And I’m never wrong.”

__

The angel smiled weakly. “Well. I suppose that bodes well for our friendship, Crowley, doesn’t it?”

__

The tinkling bell announced Anathema and Newt’s arrival, forestalling any reply Crowley could make. “Are we late?” Newt asked, startled, checking his watch. “I thought we were supposed to be here at 10.” Crowley glanced at his watch as well: it read 9:58.

__

“You’re exactly on time,” said Agnes. “We’ve just wrapped up here.” Rising from her desk, she ushered the four of them back out the door. 

__

“Well,” said Anathema in surprise as the door closed behind them. “That was a thing.” She frowned at Aziraphale. “If you’re planning on handling everything else without us, I’m sure Newt and I can find other things to occupy our time.” Newt blushed.

__

“Not at all, my dear girl!” Aziraphale protested. “I would never have left you out voluntarily! But we were both here half an hour early, and Ms. Nutter was quite insistent that she was expecting us.” 

__

Anathema was clearly skeptical. “I can believe that you were here half an hour early. But Crowley?!”

__

“Hey!” he grumbled, but the bickering was interrupted by Beelzebub’s appearance as they pulled themself up from a split in the earth of the flowerbed. Five minutes late, by Crowley’s fancy watch. The group fell quiet as Beez looked at Crowley expectantly, and he rushed to the Bentley to retrieve the set lists and client music requests. Folder duly delivered, Crowley silently willed Beelzebub to leave; they looked for a moment as if they were going to oblige, but as they began to turn away the angel stepped forward.

__

“Hello! I’m Aziraphale,” he introduced himself cheerfully, extending his hand. Beelzebub gave him a long look, but even they weren’t immune to the angel’s warmth, and they shook hands gingerly. “You’re the keyboard player with Crowley and Newt, aren’t you? Beelzebub?” When Beez nodded, Aziraphale beamed. “Lovely to meet you, my dear. Surely you don’t have to run off so quickly? Our next stop will be at the bakery, and you’re welcome to join us. I hear they’re quite good.”

__

The whole situation had Crowley’s stomach tied up in knots, but he took a second to enjoy Beelzebub’s expression as they got a hit of Aziraphale’s charm turned up to full wattage. He seriously doubted anyone had ever _my-deared_ a Prince of Hell before. He waited for Beez to sneer and depart, and was utterly gobsmacked when they shrugged and said “Got nothing else on today,” cocking a reproachful eyebrow at Crowley and Newt. 

__

All too quickly, the stomach knots won back lost ground.

__

__

*~*~*

__

_  
_

__

The aromas of warm cake and buttercream greeted them as the five of them trooped into St. Beryl’s Bakery. Aziraphale would have been wriggling in delight had he not been fretting about imposing on the baker with the unexpected additions to the party.

__

She did indeed seem taken aback as she emerged from the kitchen, but quickly smoothed her face into a pleasant smile and introduced herself as Mary. Aziraphale anxiously began an apology. “I’m so terribly sorry for the last-minute increase to the group size. If this is too much, I’d be happy to reschedule –” He stopped, suddenly aware that he might be making his extra companions feel they were an inconvenience.

__

Before he could begin a new round of apologies, Mary stepped in. “We can work with it,” she said, with sincere enthusiasm. “It might mean a bit smaller samples, but you’ll still get a good taste.” She ducked back into her kitchen, returning in a few minutes with plates of tiny cake squares. Aziraphale counted white, chocolate, carrot, lemon, and a few others he couldn’t identify, topped with dollops of buttercream in a rainbow of colors.

__

Picking up a fork and plate, he delicately selected a square of carrot cake, closing his eyes to savor the sweet taste of the spiced cake and the rich cream cheese frosting. As it dissolved on his tongue he opened his eyes, smiling, and was more than a little mortified to find the rest of the group staring at him: Anathema with affection, Newt with surprise, Beelzebub nonplussed, and Crowley – Crowley was just hard to read behind those sunglasses. 

__

Flustered, he picked up another square of carrot cake and without stopping to think, popped it between Crowley’s parted lips. “My dear, you absolutely _must_ give this a try!” 

__

Crowley couldn’t do anything but chew in astonishment. He swallowed; tonguing a bit of frosting from his teeth – slightly _pointed_ teeth, a distant part of Aziraphale’s brain noted – he said, “Suppose that’s not too bad.”

__

Anathema threw back her head and laughed at Crowley, who frowned and snatched another cake square, stuffing it in her mouth. She coughed, spluttering crumbs, but recovered quickly enough to threaten Crowley with her fork before Aziraphale could either pound her on the back or protest the waste of cake. With a final glare, Anathema neatly speared one of the little cake pieces and offered it to Newt.

__

The four of them turned to Beelzebub, who had watched the whole scene impassively. With no little trepidation, Newt held out a fork. Beez eyed it briefly, and in a blur of movement they snatched the fork, stabbed at the cake, and ate a piece. They swallowed and announced, “He’s right. Not too bad at all.”

__

When the stunned silence had dissipated, the rest of the cake tasting proceeded in a much more sedate fashion. Unable to decide, Aziraphale went with a different flavor and filling for each cake tier. As she took down his order, Mary asked, “Will you be needing a cake topper, then?” She gestured toward a shelf where a row of toppers stood. 

__

Aziraphale’s eyes roved over the selection. Tiny figures garbed in suits and dresses, with various combinations of skin tones and hair colors; even a few angels and devils. Wish though he might, he couldn’t see himself and Gabriel in any of them. 

__

“I don’t think so, thank you,” he said evenly. “I believe I’d just like to go with fresh flowers, if my florist doesn’t mind.” Crowley had opened his mouth – to jokingly suggest the plastic gold-and-silver cherubs, Aziraphale suspected – but closed it again. Aziraphale saw the demon’s jaw flex, as though he was grinding his teeth.

__

“I don’t mind at all,” Crowley said.

__

__

*~*~*

__

_  
_

__

When they crowded through the door of Eden Formalwear, the proprietress Eve greeted them with a pained smile. “My last client of the afternoon! Come on in.” She stepped out from behind the counter. She wore a tailored white dress with a bright pattern of green fig leaves; it cupped the curve of her heavily pregnant belly, and her ankles were swelling above her tasteful heels.

__

Aziraphale swept Eve off her feet and ensconced her in an armchair, a footstool beneath her feet. Crowley could sense him firing off small miracles as Eve’s swollen ankles shrank and the crease of discomfort between her brows disappeared. She sighed gratefully. “My back hasn’t felt this good in weeks.”

__

Crowley could feel Beelzebub’s gaze prickling at him. At this point he could never match the angel’s miracle count, but he halfheartedly pulled an order slip out of the bin on the counter, drawing his finger over the notes to change the groomsmen’s neckties to bow ties without thinking.

__

“Don’t even dream about getting up from that chair, my dear,” Aziraphale was saying to a protesting Eve. “There’s more than enough of us here to do any running about. If you’ll just tell me what can be tried on, we can handle it from there.”

__

“You can try on anything you’d like from the racks – just find your size and bring it back here to the dressing rooms.” 

__

Aziraphale disappeared into the shop, Anathema in tow. 

__

When he hadn’t returned in several minutes, Crowley went searching. He found Anathema trying to soothe an anxious angel, who was wandering in the forest of racks, looking for all the world like a cloud adrift among the whites and ivories. “Oh! Crowley. I’m sorry to keep everyone waiting. I just – I didn’t realize there was so very much. I have no idea where to begin, really.”

__

Crowley grinned. Before Aziraphale could object, Crowley had him installed in the chair next to Eve’s. “What’s your size? We’ll take a look around and find some things to help you narrow it down.” 

__

Aziraphale looked surprised. “You know – I don’t think I’ve had my measurements taken for quite some time. It’s been a while since I’ve had new clothing made.” 

__

Crowley and Anathema exchanged amused glances, but before either of them could follow up with a taunt, Eve patted the angel’s arm. “Why don’t you get them in your own sizes and try them on for him? We can get measurements when he finds something he likes.”

__

When everyone reconvened, Anathema was the first to model for Aziraphale, twirling in a two-piece suit of flowing white crepe with a long silver shawl. “Beautiful! And so light for a summer wedding. But perhaps… if it’s a top and trousers for myself, I think I’d want them with a little more substance,” Aziraphale said.

__

Newt was so worried about tearing the shoulders on the white satin ballgown he’d picked out that he wouldn’t even walk in it. “No, no, no!” Eve reassured him. “That’s the whole point. You should be careful about it, but you want to see how the gown fits and moves with your body type! I think Aziraphale has even broader shoulders than yours. Take off that coat, let’s see.” 

__

Aziraphale shrugged out of his coat, draping it carefully over the back of the chair, and at Eve’s urging stood back-to-back with Newt. His shoulders _were,_ in fact, broader, Crowley observed. 

__

“We could try something strapless?” Eve suggested.

__

“Let’s see what the others have first,” said Aziraphale uncertainly. 

__

Taking his cue, Crowley headed to the dressing room. He peeled out of his clothes and carefully slipped on the slim-fitting ivory silk dress, luxuriating in the feel of the smooth lining against his skin. He wasn’t at all certain it was Aziraphale’s style, but he thought the gold-and-white beadwork around the neckline would be right up the angel’s alley.

__

When he stepped out, Aziraphale’s eyes went wide. “I’m afraid I can’t say that it would be flattering on me – but, Crowley! On you, it’s stunning.” Crowley preened, leaning forward almost into Aziraphale’s lap. _Just so he can get a good look at the beading,_ he told himself smugly.

__

A throat cleared from the direction of the dressing room, and Crowley quickly straightened and moved aside. 

__

Beelzebub came out from behind the curtain – in the same clothes they always wore. Long black fitted coat, too-short dark striped trousers, orangey sash. Crowley rolled his eyes, but Aziraphale bounced out of his chair, excitedly. “You know, I hadn’t looked so closely at your outfit before, my dear, but this could be splendid! Make the coat a bit looser, maybe in a cream? And longer pants, in a solid pale brown or dark gold, perhaps. With a waistcoat instead of a sash?” He circled Beelzebub, surveying. His gaze lingered on the black fishnet anklets.

__

Anathema snagged his elbow. “Aziraphale. You are describing the exact suit you’re wearing right now.” He looked down at himself in dismay; disappointed, he sagged back, his excitement evaporating. Beelzebub’s smirk evaporated as well.

__

Eve pushed herself up out of her chair, leaving her high heels behind. “You!” She pointed at Aziraphale. “Go wait in a room. You!” She grabbed Anathema by the arm. “Come help me with these.” In her stockinged feet she pulled Anathema along with her into the depths of the shop. Hangers slid, clothes rustled, and after a whispered conversation the two women returned with carefully draped armfuls of black and white.

__

Crowley couldn’t hear much of the goings-on in the dressing room beyond muttering and occasional noises of protest. He wasn’t too surprised when both Eve and Anathema had to forcibly drag the angel out in the open, but when Aziraphale finally emerged, Crowley’s brain disconnected with an almost audible pop. _“Ngk,”_ he choked, too quietly for anyone to notice.

__

“At least this getup has a bow tie, even if it is black. Are you sure this doesn’t make me look too much like a waiter, Anathema?” Aziraphale asked fretfully, tugging at the pale cream jacket. 

__

“Stop pulling!” Anathema scolded, smacking at his hands and brushing some lint off of his black trousers. “It’s not like our uniform at all. You look perfectly elegant.”

__

“It’s a very retro style. Just like the one James Bond wore in _Goldfinger,_ ” added Eve. 

__

“James Bond?” asked the angel, perplexed.

__

“Yes, yes, _yes!_ ” Crowley babbled. “This is perfect. You should wear this. With a white dress shirt and a red carnation in your lapel.” 

__

Aziraphale frowned at him. “My flowers are purple, Crowley. You of all people should know.” He turned this way and that, inspecting himself in the mirror.

__

Glancing at Crowley, Newt piped in, “It’s a good look on you, Aziraphale. Very classy.” Crowley threw him a grateful grin.

__

Even Beelzebub, who was back to slouching against the wall, nodded in approval.

__

“Well… I suppose it is a nice compromise between the traditional black tuxedo and the all-white one Gabriel would prefer.” Aziraphale straightened decisively. “I’ll take it!” 

__

“Wonderful! I’m sure your Gabriel will be thrilled – you look so handsome.” Eve clapped delightedly. “So you’re keeping it a secret for the big day?”

__

“Ah – yes,” Aziraphale stammered. “Just so.” He plucked at his tie. “It’ll be quite a surprise.”

__

__

*~*~*

__

_  
_

__

It was fine that Anathema had left after they wrapped up at Eve’s; she’d said she had “stuff to take care of.” It was fine that Newt had also left at the same time; Anathema had practically dragged him away, and from the look Crowley had seen on her face as Newt had emerged in his satiny ballgown, he suspected he had an idea as to the “stuff” she was planning. It was more than fine that Beez was gone too; he suspected they’d more than likely had their fill of cute frivolities for the day, if not the millennium.

__

What was not fine was that he had another chance to sit uninterrupted with Aziraphale, and here they were listening to Ligur and Hastur mangle a classic. They’d dropped the key for Ligur’s deeper vocals, but he was still painfully off-pitch.

__

“Weren’t you the one who tried to break me with goodbye? Did you think I’d crumble? Did you think I’d lay down and die?” 

__

“I’ve never seen it from this side before,” said Crowley, appalled. “Is this what I look like?” 

__

“No, no, no!” Aziraphale reassured him in a stage whisper. “You’re much better than him!”

__

Ligur strutted across the stage in an orange polyester suit, the chameleon on his head shifting colors to the beat. “I’ve got all my life to live, and I’ve got all my love to give.” He gyrated his hips at Aziraphale, who watched with horror. 

__

“And I’ll survive. I will survive!”

__

It was no surprise to Crowley that Beelzebub played circles around Hastur on keyboards. He _was_ surprised, however, that Hastur had managed to put together a six-demon backup ensemble. They were all exact replicas of Crowley’s guitarist Eric; in fact, Crowley thought, one of them had a distinctly guilty look and was avoiding his stare.

__

They repeated the last chorus about three times too many before finally wrapping it up with a flourish, Hastur’s frog almost slipping off his head with his deep bow. Crowley thought Aziraphale’s polite applause was a little too forceful, but schooled his face into a neutral smile. 

__

The rest of the band milled about uncertainly, but left their instruments and filed out the back as Hastur and Ligur approached their audience. Crowley rose from his folding chair and took a quick step forward, intercepting them before Aziraphale could stand. “Ligur. Hastur. Thanks for the demo,” he said, insincerely.

__

“I actually think _we_ should be thanking _you,_ ” purred Ligur. “Our bookings have tripled since you – ah – left the scene.”

__

“Or should we thank Dagon?” Hastur chuckled. Crowley bristled at the same time his stomach clenched.

__

Crowley felt a supernatural surge, and the temperature plummeted several degrees. _“Well,”_ Aziraphale broke in, clipped and icy. “The two of you have inspired me to hire a DJ. So thank _you._ ”

__

The demons all stared at him in astonishment. 

__

“Oh,” said Hastur. 

__

“Well,” huffed Ligur.

__

“Good luck finding a DJ who can move and shake like _this,_ ” sneered Hastur, and in tandem he and Ligur shimmied their way back behind the stage curtain. 

__

Crowley slumped back down in his chair as the temperature slowly rose back to normal. Still glaring after Ligur and Hastur, Aziraphale patted his knee consolingly. “Some people have absolutely no professionalism.”

__

“I’d agree with you, but. Be the pot calling kettle and all.” 

__

“I won’t hear it, Crowley. You were under emotional duress. You just – what is it? Ah, yes – you fell off the horse, and now you need to get right back on!” Aziraphale said encouragingly. “Look, you can start right now. There’s a whole stack of instruments there. Take your pick.”

__

“Hard on the buttocks, horses,” muttered Crowley, but under Aziraphale’s expectant stare he reluctantly swung himself up onto the stage, picking up one of the guitars the backup demons had left behind and checking the tuning. “What do you want me to sing, then?”

__

Aziraphale beamed at him, delighted. “Whatever you’re feeling, Crowley.”

__

_Whatever you’re feeling._ Crowley was feeling a lot of things. Embarrassed and angry at Hastur and Ligur. Hurt by Dagon, newly lashed open. But mostly what he was feeling right at the moment was exposed and not a little vulnerable here on someone else’s stage with someone else’s guitar, playing for someone else’s angel.

__

So he tamped it all down. Boxed it up and slapped a _Do Not Open Till Doomsday_ sticker on the front. Pasted on a grin. “All right angel. It’s gonna be a little choppy though. Ups and downs, y’know?” He started playing, making up ridiculous words as he went along. 

__

“You don’t know how much I need you. While you’re near me I don’t feel blue. And when we kiss, I know you need me too. I can’t believe I found a love that’s so pure and true.” Without thinking, he changed tempo, got louder. “But it all was bullshit! It was a goddamn joke. And when I think of you, Dagon, I hope you fucking choke.” 

__

Deep breath. Tone it down. “I hope you’re glad with what you did to me. I lay in bed all day long feeling melancholy. You left me here all alone. Tears running constantly.” Suddenly he was shouting, still in tune, “Somebody kill me please. Oh somebody kill me please! I’m on my knees – pretty pretty please! Kill me. I want to die.” 

__

He dropped the guitar and buried his face in his hands before he could do something even more stupid, like maybe burst into tears. 

__

He heard footsteps and raised his head as Aziraphale hoisted himself rather ungracefully up onto the stage. Three steps and the angel was standing next to him; Crowley braced himself for platitudes, aphorisms, some sort of cheerful admonishment to _keep his chin up_ or similar bullshit.

__

Eyeing him thoughtfully, Aziraphale said, “I can’t say it’s excessively superior to your rendition of ‘Love Stinks’, but since I haven’t seen Uriel smiting you yet, I suppose it’s at least something of an improvement.” 

__

Crowley choked, coughing on the snarl and the sob that had both been clawing their way up out of his throat. Eyes watering, he looked up at the angel; when he opened his mouth, he had no idea what was about to emerge.

__

Laughter was what bubbled out from behind his lips. Spluttering and snorting, he tipped his head backward and howled, and after a moment Aziraphale joined him. And if Crowley’s laughter had more than a little tinge of hysteria, neither of them were tactless enough to draw attention to it.

__

Ligur and Hastur would have been tactless enough if they’d wanted to give themselves away from their vantage point behind the curtain. Listening to the mad cackling, Ligur shook his head. “He’s losing his mind.”

__

“Yes,” Hastur agreed gleefully. “And _we’re_ reaping all the benefits.”

__

__

*~*~*

__

__  


__

Aziraphale smiled brightly at the ice cream vendor. “A 99 Flake for me, please. And whatever my friend is having.” 

__

“Um,” said Crowley. “An ice lolly?”

__

“What flavor?” asked the man behind the cart.

__

Crowley hesitated. “Strawberry,” he finally said, with a half-smile and a sideways glance at Aziraphale. 

__

Aziraphale paid and the two of them wandered down the park path with their treats. All around them children shrieked, dogs chased sticks, and couples picnicked on checkered blankets. It was quite idyllic, Aziraphale thought as he chased running drips of vanilla with his tongue.

__

“Thanks for the lolly,” Crowley said.

__

“You’re welcome, my dear,” Aziraphale replied. “Ice cream always cheers _me_ up.” 

__

“Me too, sometimes,” agreed Crowley with a grin. “Like right now.” Aziraphale felt a swell of warmth – almost camaraderie, until Crowley spoiled it by taking an obscene slurp of his melting red bar. Aziraphale frowned and looked away, pretending a sudden interest in the pigeons. 

__

“You know, it’s a little weird, being here,” Crowley mused. “Dagon and I used to come here every now and then to watch the humans.” 

__

“May I ask… what happened with Dagon?”

__

Crowley shrugged. “They weren’t the right one, I guess.” A few more steps down the path he went on, “There were just a lot of little signs I should have seen. Like – we were in London together and went to see the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace. They’ve been doing it for hundreds of years but it was the first time I’d ever been, and there we were with all the tourists, yeah? Cameras everywhere. And I’m gearing myself up, figuring out what I want to do – and before I could do anything, Dagon snaps and the lead guard takes a pratfall out of nowhere, and all the ones behind him are tripping over him and then they’re _all_ falling about, with tourists taking pictures and laughing till _they_ fell about too.” He shook his head. “You would have thought Dagon would have let me be the one to do something, since they’d been there before. But they didn’t.” Aziraphale saw him flush. “I know it sounds stupid. There were just… a lot of little things like that.” 

__

Aziraphale stuffed the last of his chocolate flake bar in his mouth to stave off the righteous anti-guard-harassment rant he could feel building. When he was done chewing, his irritation had subsided enough for him to say, with genuine sympathy, “It’s not stupid at all. If you ask me, it’s often the little things that count the most.” 

__

Crowley offered him another one of those endearing half-smiles. They continued their stroll in silence until the demon asked tentatively, “So how did you know about Gabriel? That he was the right one?” 

__

“The right one?” Aziraphale asked slowly. Crowley nodded, watching him. “Well… I guess it goes without saying, of course, since we’re immortal, but… I always just envisioned the right one being someone I’d be happy living with forever.” 

__

“And Gabriel’s someone you can live with forever?” 

__

“He’s an Archangel, Crowley! I’m lucky to have him.” Aziraphale sounded evasive even to himself. He finished the last bite of his cone and wiped his hands ineffectively with the soggy paper that had wrapped it, throwing the messy scrap into a nearby bin. “And unlike some people, no one can say he can’t pick out a scarf.” He reached out to tweak the silver strip Crowley had knotted around his neck.

__

“Oi!” shouted Crowley, slapping at Aziraphale’s sticky fingers. “Did you just insinuate that that – Archangel has better fashion sense than I do? Bit rich, coming from someone whose style’s at _least_ half a century out of date.” He crossly bit the final chunk of half-melted strawberry off his lolly and looked for a moment as if he was going to toss the stick into the grass; Aziraphale glared at him until the demon scowled and stalked to the rubbish bin. 

__

“What was that charming word Eve used today - _retro?_ Or perhaps _timeless_ is the word you’re looking for,” Aziraphale said, but Crowley went silent, refusing to rise to any further bait and seemingly working himself into a sulk. 

__

Aziraphale could sense the mood going sour. He plucked at his waistcoat worriedly. Whatever he’d said, he hadn’t meant to spoil the end of their day.

__

“Look, Crowley. I appreciate your assistance today. I’d never have had such an easy time of it if you hadn’t come along. And it – it was a lovely day,” he faltered. 

__

Crowley thawed a little. “Glad to help, angel.” He tilted his head inquisitively in the general direction of the Bentley. “Need another lift home? I promise to take it a little slower this time.”

__

“That won’t be necessary, thank you,” Aziraphale said, pulling out his pocket watch to check the time. “Gabriel’s picking me up at the church down the street in half an hour. He said we could work on our vows this evening.” He smiled a bit thinly. “I’m pleased to finally have some part of this wedding he’s willing to help with.”

__

“Right,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale could almost hear his shutters snapping closed. “See you around then, Aziraphale.” He turned on his heel and headed away, a brisk, almost angry walk replacing his usual hipsy saunter. 

__

Aziraphale closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. _Were all demons so prickly?_ At least now he’d have a little more time to work on drafting his vows.

__

When he arrived at the church, he sank down onto a bench outside. He and Gabriel wouldn’t be getting married there, but it had seemed a reasonable enough rendezvous point. He pulled out a pen and his gold wedding notebook, balancing it awkwardly on his knee, but as he tried to collect his thoughts they scattered like birds. It had been such a confusing carousel of a day. He stared at the blank page, wondering what to write. He supposed he should take his own advice. _Whatever you’re feeling._

__

But all he was feeling right now was lost. 

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Tio-Trile’s Rave Ligur for Ligur’s color-changing chameleon: https://tio-trile.tumblr.com/post/185820168729/disco-rave-ligur-by-itself-for-request-because (accessed 2020-04-19)  
>   
> Crowley’s dress is Mara Hoffman’s Coiled Snake wedding gown. https://www.instyle.com/news/mara-hoffmans-coiled-snake-wedding-gown-slithering-its-way-our-hearts (accessed 2020-04-19) – I recommend searching for more images to get a better look at the beadwork. It’s lovely!


	5. Just Can't Get Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Oh, come on. No tongue?” Crowley grinned. “There has to be at least a little tongue.”_
> 
> _“Not porno tongue,” agreed Anathema. “Celestial tongue.”_
> 
> In which Aziraphale has an educational experience, and Crowley and Anathema have a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titles are from songs on the Wedding Singer Soundtracks (Original and More Music).  
> Chapter 5: "Just Can't Get Enough" by Depeche Mode.
> 
> Heartfelt thanks as always to Anti_kate for the beta!

Crowley sat in the parking lot, tapping a finger impatiently against the Bentley’s steering wheel. He jumped as the Bentley’s passenger door opened. “Thanks for bringing these over,” Newt said, reaching for his drum sticks. “Sorry I left them in your car. I have other pairs but these are my favourites.”

“How can you possibly have favourite drum sticks?” Crowley demanded, handing them over with a shrug. “They’re sticks. You hit a drum with ‘em. You probably could’ve run to the park down the street and grabbed some big twigs that would’ve done about the same job.” He worked hard to hide his smirk, and from behind his sunglasses he watched Newt’s mouth open, close, and open again in outrage. 

He cheerfully braced himself for a furious lecture on drum stick wood types, tips, and thicknesses, and was so busy thinking up sexual innuendos with which to respond that he completely missed Newt snapping his mouth shut again. Instead of taking the bait, he picked up something from the Bentley’s dash. 

“What are these? They don’t look like yours, they’re too small. And no tint,” Newt said, holding the glasses up to the light to get a better look.

Crowley squinted at them, then snatched them away. “Those are Aziraphale’s!” he said, innuendos forgotten as he tilted them this way and that, checking for scratches. “He must have left them yesterday. He was trying to read the street names but gave it up as a bad job. Said I was taking the corners too fast. Guess he took them off after that.”

“You’d think he would have put them in his coat pocket,” said Newt, watching him.

“No, he took off his coat and left it in the back seat. Wanted to keep the sun off that cake he had the baker wrap up for him. The cake!” He whipped around, peering into the back seat, which was empty. “Looks like he remembered that then.” Crowley sagged against his seat, relieved. “He’d have been upset if he’d had to miracle it fresh again. He said he doesn’t think miracled food tastes as good.” 

“Don’t get me wrong here; he’s a nice guy – er, a nice angel – but why are you so worried about him being upset?” Newt asked, sliding into the passenger seat and shutting the door. 

Crowley scowled at him. “Why are you in my car? And why’d you close the door?”

“I closed the door so Beez or Eric won’t hear this conversation if they come looking for me. Which they will, soon. What’s got you so obsessed with him?”

Crowley sighed. “You said it yourself, Newt. He’s a nice angel. And I, as a demon, specifically am not nice. I have a dearth of niceness. Maybe I just want a change of pace, thought about that?” Newt looked skeptical. “And think about this. Have you seen his eyes? What color were they when you looked at them?”

“Um… blue maybe? Hazel?” Newt said uncertainly.

“That’s just it! They’re a different color every time. Like the sky maybe, or the ocean,” Crowley mused dreamily. “And that smile! Could power this whole city if they put up panels. Maybe even London. You think they could use the regular solar panels, or would it have to be special angel-caliber ones?”

_“Crowley,”_ said Newt, cutting his rhapsody short. “You really do have a thing for him, don’t you?”

Crowley propped an elbow on the steering wheel and leaned his face into his hand. From behind long fingers he muttered, “I suppose at this point it’s abundantly clear.” 

“You’ve only known him a few weeks. And most of the time you’ve spent with him has been planning his wedding. To someone else. Not even a month after –”

“—after my own wedding imploded, yes, I’m _painfully_ aware of all of these facts, Newt. I’ve run ‘em through my own head a thousand times by now. I’m also aware that ‘having a thing’ for an Archangel’s partner is one of the worst ideas I’ve had in six thousand years. And I invented aspic recipes and telemarketing, so my bar for bad ideas is set pretty high. But you know what else I’m aware of?”

“What’s that?”

Crowley tucked Aziraphale’s little glasses into the V-neck of his shirt. “I’m aware that I’ve got to get over to that wanker of an Archangel’s house so I can give Aziraphale his glasses back.” 

The Bentley’s passenger door popped open. 

Newt took the hint and got out slowly. He bent his tall frame to peer back into the car. “You know what you’re _not_ aware of, Crowley?”

“What’s that?” Crowley growled.

“Aziraphale isn’t at Gabriel’s.” Crowley blinked at Newt in surprise. Newt went on smugly, “The, ah, wanker dropped him off at Anathema’s house at seven this morning. Anathema was not happy. But Aziraphale made us all tea and breakfast, so that kind of made up for it. From the way he and Anathema were talking, it sounded like he was going to be there all afternoon.”

A wave of relief washed over Crowley. The thought of going to Gabriel’s house set his teeth on edge. His fangs, too. Then something struck him. “So what the heaven were you doing at Anathema’s house at seven o’clock eating angel-made breakfast?” The only answer he got was a slam of the Bentley’s door.

Crowley grinned as he peeled the Bentley out of the parking lot and headed for Jasmine Cottage.

*~*~*

Aziraphale wrapped netting around a scoop of bird seed and tied it with a purple ribbon, setting it in the box with the other bundles he and Anathema had already made. He tossed a handful of seed to the eager sparrows clustered around him just as Anathema came out the back door with fresh cups of steaming, lavender-and-bergamot-scented tea.

“Hey! What did I tell you about getting that stuff everywhere? I’m going to have weird plants sprouting all over the place,” she admonished, setting the tea down on the garden table. She picked up another square of netting. “How many more of these things do we have to make, anyway?”

He looked at the box and realized they’d made dozens of the little bundles – far more than they’d likely need. “These should be plenty for our guests to toss. I suppose the birds will like it if there are extras. Our little quality testers here seem to approve.” He reached for the tea and took a sip, humming in appreciation. 

Anathema sat down and opened the wedding notebook. “Let’s see. Photographer, cake, snazzy suit. You’re getting a DJ? The other band didn’t work out?”

“Not by half. Terrible musicians, and rude to boot. Luckily Crowley had a DJ recommendation. Some sort of twin brother of someone in his band?” He tinkered absently with one of the extra ribbons. “It’s such a good thing he offered to come along to help. –Oh! And you too, of course,” he added, giving Anathema a sheepish smile.

“Hmmm.” Anathema eyed him. “And he’s still doing the flowers?”

“That’s what he said, but I’m afraid he left in a bit of a snit yesterday. I don’t want to be a bother to him – do you think I should look for another florist?”

“Nah. He’s just dramatic. He’ll get over it in a day or two. Besides, he likes having any excuse to shout at his plants. So what was he in a snit about?”

“I’m not quite sure. He asked me about Gabriel, and then got upset when I teased him about his scarf.” He tugged at the fraying ribbon anxiously. “Do you think I gave him too much of a hard time?”

“Crowley? He _exists_ to bicker. I’d be surprised if that was his problem. What exactly did he ask you about Gabriel?”

Aziraphale thought back to yesterday’s conversation. “He wanted to know why I thought Gabriel was the right one to marry.” 

Anathema hesitated. “Well… frankly, Zira, that’s a question we all have. Gabriel’s never around, and when he is, he either ignores you or treats you like shit. What are you getting out of this relationship, exactly?”

He’d never discussed this with a human before. “Angels can do miracles, yes?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, a pair of married angels can do even better miracles. Heal the entire hospital instead of only a patient or two. Bless not just a wedding couple, but the entire reception hall – or even the entire town.” Aziraphale looked down at his hands and saw that he’d pulled the purple ribbon to threads. “Can you imagine being able to help that many people? And with an archangel – together we could help so many more. I’m lucky to have Gabriel, Anathema. I said as much to Crowley yesterday.”

“But Zira –” Anathema reached out to clasp his hand. “Helping other people is all well and good… but what about yourself?”

“Gabriel tries, Anathema.” Aziraphale pulled his hand away to stuff the purple threads in a pocket. “Besides, have you _seen_ him? With those eyes and that hair? He’s quite a catch.” 

_Gabriel’s hair doesn’t blaze up like honeyfire in the sunlight, though._ He wondered what Crowley’s eyes looked like. He’d never seen them without the sunglasses.

Anathema wrinkled her nose. “To each their own, I guess. But as they say, looks aren’t everything. And don’t forget, you’re quite a catch too, Zira. What’s Gabriel done to deserve you? Has he done anything romantic? Even the clichés – walked with you on the beach at sunset? Held your hand and run with you through the rain? Has he ever even taken you on a date? For that matter, has he shown you the slightest hint of affection at all?”

“Oh, come now. If a jog through the rain together is a qualifier for a happy relationship, think about what it would look like any time there was a bit of a sprinkle! Couples sprinting down the street like it was the running of the bulls in Pamplona. Without the bulls, of course.” He picked up another ribbon and began to wind it through his fingers. “Gabriel does enjoy jogging. One of the few human activities he’s taken up. But I’m not much of a runner, I’m afraid.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Butterflies in your stomach? Sparks in your chest when he looks at you? Where’s the love, Aziraphale?” Anathema glared at him.

He glared back, defensive. “Angelic love is everywhere, Anathema. All around us, love for the world! Angels are beings of love. Archangels even more so. Does it have to be for a specific entity?” 

He lost himself inwardly for a moment. “Wouldn’t it be selfish to want it to be for a specific entity?” he asked quietly. 

Anathema paused her interrogation. “What’s your wedding night going to be like?” she finally asked.

_“Really,_ Anathema!” Aziraphale spluttered, blushing.

“These are questions you need to be asking yourself about someone you’re going to be with for a very long time,” she persisted. “How are you even going to kiss him at the altar?”

“I don’t know that kissing is a part of a traditional angelic ceremony,” he said doubtfully.

“Neither are tuxedos or flowers or photographers,” Anathema pointed out. “Think about it. It’s going to be your first kiss as a married couple. It’s perfectly acceptable to, say… open your mouth.” 

_“What?_ Not in front of a whole crowd of other angels, and possibly God, Anathema,” Aziraphale snapped. “That would be improper. As is this entire conversation, honestly.” 

Anathema took a deep breath – she was gathering steam, he could tell. He set his jaw stubbornly.

A pounding at the front door interrupted them. Anathema tried to ignore it, staring the angel down, but it went on, getting even louder. She finally rose. “We’re not through with this discussion,” she warned him as she disappeared into the cottage. 

Aziraphale dropped the ribbon and took another sip of his tea. He heard footsteps and looked up belligerently, ready to resume battle. Instead, he saw sunglasses and a sardonic smile. His heart pounded, setting off a spark in his chest. “Crowley!”

“Hello, angel. You forgot your glasses in the car.” Crowley held the glasses up, a little shamefaced. “I was a bit too tetchy to catch that you’d left ‘em yesterday.” 

Aziraphale managed to rein in his initial impulse to gush reassurance as he stood. “You’ve likely smudged them,” he said tartly, plucking the glasses from Crowley’s hand and trying not to notice the brush of his fingers. He softened enough to add, “But thank you for bringing them back. It’s very thoughtful of you.” 

Crowley brightened. “Anytime.” He glanced over at the boxes of decorations. “Got the wedding all sorted out, then?”

Anathema had edged her way back out onto the patio and was surveying the two of them. Aziraphale wasn’t sure he liked her expression at all. “Not quite, actually. Maybe Crowley could help us with this last part?” she suggested slyly.

“Yeah, maybe,” Crowley agreed suspiciously.

“You’ve got some experience here, with your history of demonic temptations. We were just having a debate about wedding kisses. I say it should be a proper open-mouth kiss.”

“And I – I say that would be utterly inappropriate for the occasion,” Aziraphale stammered in mortification. He could hardly look at Crowley, and instead glowered at Anathema, who smiled innocently in return.

“I see.” Crowley’s eyebrows had shot up above his sunglasses. 

“What are you gonna do? Tight closed mouth and then it’s over?” Anathema demanded.

Aziraphale rubbed a hand over his face, hoping it would hide his flush. “I cannot believe we are having this discussion. I’m so sorry, Crowley. You know how ill-mannered Americans are.”

Crowley folded his arms. “Well… what _are_ you gonna do?”

Aziraphale stared at him in disbelief. Finally, almost overcome with embarrassment, he said hesitantly, “Partially opened mouth, perhaps. But absolutely no tongue.”

“Oh, come on. No tongue?” Crowley grinned. “There has to be at least a little tongue.”

“Not porno tongue,” agreed Anathema. “Celestial tongue.” 

_“Celestial_ tongue?” Aziraphale echoed, scandalised. “What does that even mean, Anathema?”

“It’s a definition you get to invent,” Anathema declared. “You need to get on with it, though. This one’s already offered to help us.” She smiled sweetly at Crowley. “I understand he’s quite clever in that particular regard. At the very least he could be your guinea pig.”

“Whoa!” Crowley almost jumped backwards in panicked surprise. “I very absolutely think not! Terrible idea! Besides, let’s not be forgetting I’m not exactly ‘celestial’. And I’m still recovering from my last smiting, thank you very much.”

“Come on, Crowley. This angel won’t smite you. Not for just a quick kiss, anyway. And you!” she turned to Aziraphale. “You want to know what you’re doing before the big day, don’t you? Think of this as a test run. You could even say it’s… educational.” 

_“Educational,”_ Crowley muttered. 

The tableau held for a few seconds more: Aziraphale flustered, Crowley wary, Anathema observing them both with the anticipation of an astrologer who knows the stars are about to do something interesting. 

Aziraphale drew the very scanty shreds of his dignity around himself and said faintly, “Well. I suppose if it’s for educational purposes…” Crowley made an indeterminate, anguished sort of noise. The angel extended an uncertain hand, and was completely astonished when after a moment’s hesitation, Crowley took it and carefully pulled him close. His fingers were cool, Aziraphale noted distantly, tilting his chin up ever so slightly to meet Crowley’s mouth with his own.

More than anything else it was the tenderness of the kiss that confounded him. He’d thought the demon all spikes and sharp edges, but now he was more petal than thorn, and Aziraphale pressed closer. Crowley’s lips parted for him, and instead of the bitter brimstone he’d half expected he tasted a gentle smoke that mingled with the black tea and bergamot on his own tongue as their mouths moved softly together. _Just a quick kiss._ He felt the barest graze of teeth over his bottom lip as he drew away. 

Crowley’s hand had risen to cup his cheek, he noted with dazed surprise.

As he stepped back and collapsed into his chair, Aziraphale thought he saw Crowley’s fingers twitch toward him before the demon stuffed his hands into his too-tight pockets. Aziraphale tried to catch his gaze. _Did he never take the damned sunglasses off?_ He wished with all his corporation’s heart he could see Crowley’s eyes. Just once. 

“Well, Aziraphale,” Anathema said. Her voice had lost all its sharpness. “What did you learn?”

He stared at her and couldn’t think of a single bloody way to respond.

From inside the cottage a door banged open. “Hello?”

At the sound of that voice, all his thoughts clattered back into his brain at once. His mind raced as footsteps became louder; he seized his glasses and settled them on his nose, and – steeling himself – drained the last of his lukewarm tea with deliberate sloppiness.

He whipped out a handkerchief and was very lightly patting the droplets of tea on his face when Gabriel emerged into the garden. “I’m glad to finally encounter a human with some sense!” Gabriel said approvingly to Anathema. “So much easier for your guests to get in and out if you just leave the doors unlocked.”

He bent to give Aziraphale a perfunctory peck on the cheek but pulled back, grimacing. “Ugh. You smell like that awful drink.” His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. “And is that… demon?”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale said, smiling coolly at Gabriel with a calm he did not feel in the least. He nodded to Crowley. “Anathema’s friend Crowley came with us to the shops yesterday, and I’m afraid I left my glasses in his car overnight. He was kind enough to bring them over. They could have picked up a bit of his scent, I suppose.”

“Yes, you did say something about the glasses last night, didn’t you? I don’t know why you bother with them. And I guess that stink _is_ like the one on your coat, now that you mention it.” Gabriel turned to Crowley and frowned. “Oh, the singer again.” 

“Yes, the singer again, that’s me,” Crowley said with a stilted nonchalance. “Sorry for smelling up your things and all.” Aziraphale didn’t miss the tightening of his lovely mouth.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, my dear!” he said quickly, forgetting himself. “Your scent’s rather like smoke. Certainly not unpleasant at all. Quite the contrary.” His smile warmed into something more genuine as he regarded the demon.

Fortunately, Gabriel did not comprehend the finer nuances of facial expressions. “I suppose some angels have a higher tolerance for that sort of thing than others,” he grumbled. “I don’t have any, myself."

“Nor do you have any manners,” Aziraphale said crisply.

“That’s right – no manners. Also no glasses, or food, or wedding decorations, or other unnecessary human crap,” Gabriel snapped.

“That is _quite_ enough, Gabriel.” Aziraphale slapped his handkerchief down on the garden table with a force that rattled the teacups, shocking everyone including himself. “I’m certainly aware of your lack of interest in human and demonic concerns – and in manners – but this rudeness to my friends is completely unacceptable.”

He’d known Gabriel since before the beginning of the world, and it was the first time he could remember seeing his fiancé so stunned. Gabriel rocked back on his heels and actually _gaped_ at him. Aziraphale met his purple-eyed stare steadily. 

Finally, he said slowly, “I think you’ve told me the word is ‘apology’?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. 

“Fine,” Gabriel said. “I apology for upsetting you.”

“Gabriel. That is not the correct grammatical usage of—" Aziraphale bit off the reprimand and exhaled deeply. “I am not the one to whom you should make amends.” He gestured at Crowley and Anathema, who had been watching the scene play out in fascinated silence. 

Gabriel regarded them stonily. “Allow me to make amends to you, then. What’s an appropriate atonement, Aziraphale? – Ah! What’s that food thing you like so much. Dinner? Let’s take the two of them to ‘dinner’.”

“Oh, my dear!” said Aziraphale in alarm. “I hardly think that’s necess-“

“We’d be delighted,” Crowley cut in. It was Aziraphale’s turn to gape.

“Great!” Gabriel said, clearly of the opinion he’d done his penance. “Tell Aziraphale where and when.” 

He turned to Aziraphale impatiently. “If you’re ready to go, bring your stuff.” He disappeared back into the cottage. A few seconds later the front door banged open and shut again.

Aziraphale briefly covered his face with a palm. He stuffed his raging emotions back down before lifting his hand to smile weakly at Anathema. “See, I told you. Gabriel tries.”

*~*~*

Stupefied, Crowley watched Aziraphale stack boxes of birdseed bundles and bunting. The angel hoisted three full boxes, balancing them easily on one arm and tossing a leftover bag of birdseed to Anathema with his free hand. “For your bird feeder, my dear. We don’t have one at Gabriel’s.”

“Here, angel. Let me help,” he said, stepping forward belatedly. 

“I’ve got it, Crowley. But thank you.” Aziraphale gave him a tired smile, glowing only faintly this time, like a pale sun behind clouds. He began to make his way back into the cottage.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley called after him. Aziraphale looked back over his shoulder.

“Nice save back there. Never thought I’d see an angel so smooth with a lie.” 

Aziraphale arched a brow. “And you still haven’t, my dear boy. I think if you reconsider, you’ll find that I didn’t speak a word of untruth,” he replied. He regarded Crowley inscrutably for a moment longer, then turned and was gone.

Before Crowley could even begin to think about processing everything that had happened, Anathema grabbed him by the shoulder. “We have to have dinner with that twat now?”

Crowley ignored her question and sank into a chair. He looked bleakly at his friend. “He can’t marry Gabriel, Anathema.” 

She studied him silently before vanishing into the house in a swirl of skirts. She returned almost immediately with a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses. “No limes, but I could go back and mix this with some juice if you want.”

In response Crowley grabbed the tequila, filled the two shot glasses, and downed them one after another. 

They sat without talking for what felt like forever, occasionally shooting more tequila, until Anathema leaned forward and folded her arms on the table, laying her head down atop them. “You’re right, Crowley,” she said, a bit muffled. “He can’t marry Gabriel. But there’s no telling _him_ that. He’s got some strange sense of holy responsibility. I wish he had half as much fucking backbone for standing up for himself as he does for other people.” 

She pushed her shot glass away, which Crowley took as an invitation to start drinking directly from the bottle. “But I don’t see the point of going to dinner with them,” she complained.

“Bit of an impulse, actually. I wanted to see what they’re like together. Wanted to see if – if he treats Aziraphale any better when we’re around them for longer than five minutes at a time.”

“Not from what I’ve seen.” Anathema stood up unsteadily and started collecting cups. The second one she picked up had been Aziraphale’s; she squinted blearily at the dregs, then frowned. “This is… not a great sign. Look, Crowley,” she brandished the teacup at him.

He peered into the cup, but all he saw were couple of soggy lavender flowers and a scattering of leaf bits in a kind of double arch shape. “Don’t see anything special. No reason for your usual 'prophecy' nonsense.”

“That’s purple eyes. And wings! I think something weird is about to happen with Gabriel.”

“Wings! That’s a bit of a stretch, innit?” He took another swig from the bottle. “Does that arsehole have anything that stands out about him at all besides the eyes? And the charming personality, of course.”

“Crowley. I need you to take this seriously.” He could see her struggling to think clearly; he set the tequila on the table and miracled her mostly sober. The level of liquor rose a couple of inches, and he put the wooden stopper back in the bottle. Much as he adored Anathema, he had no interest in drinking anything she’d had de-consumed.

He himself had no intention of sobering up. He left his own tequila where it was, coursing through his system and cushioning his brain.

Anathema made a face. “I don’t know which I hate more: that miracle or the hangover.” She irritably set the teacup back in its saucer. “We need to figure out what’s going on. No matter what you think about my divinations.” 

“So what does that mean exactly?”

“It means I’ll go to that damn dinner with you. But _you’re_ the one who’ll be explaining it to Newt.”


	6. Hold Me Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Crowley had been regretting his impulsive acceptance of Gabriel’s offer since he and Anathema had hurried through pouring rain to the restaurant door, and he was faced with the reality of watching Aziraphale with Gabriel for at least an hour. What had he been thinking?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titles are from songs on the Wedding Singer Soundtracks (Original and More Music).  
> Chapter 6: “Hold Me Now” by The Thompson Twins.
> 
> Gratitude as ever to my lovely beta Anti_kate.

“There they are!” Anathema exclaimed. “Aziraphale’s never late for anything, especially not a dinner date. I was starting to get worried.”

Crowley hadn’t been worried. In fact, he’d been downright hopeful that the angels were going to be no-shows. He’d been regretting his impulsive acceptance of Gabriel’s offer since he and Anathema had hurried through pouring rain to the restaurant door, and he was faced with the reality of watching Aziraphale with Gabriel for at least an hour. _What was I thinking?_

It’s not like he needed confirmation that Gabriel would be a jerk to Aziraphale no matter how much time they spent together. The only thing this dinner was going to confirm was that he, Anthony J Crowley, was going to be a lovelorn idiot for the rest of eternity.

As Anathema began to wave, he looked up to see Aziraphale trying to wave back while simultaneously folding a sky-blue umbrella, and chuckled in spite of himself. The angel stowed the umbrella in a stand by the door, turned, and hastily grabbed Gabriel’s arm to pull him away from what appeared to be an argument with the hostess. Aziraphale leaned in and said something that made her smile before he towed Gabriel toward their table. He looked exhausted already.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said as they took their seats. “Traffic was absolutely beastly.”

“Traffic?” said Anathema disbelievingly. “You drove?”

Aziraphale beamed. “Gabriel did! He’s very fond of his car, aren’t you, darling?” Gabriel grunted. 

The server arrived with a Blue Hawaiian for Anathema and another Long Island Iced Tea for Crowley. “Hello! I’m Nicole, and I’ll be your server tonight. What can I get you to drink?” 

“I’d like a gin and tonic, please. Heavy on the gin, if you don’t mind,” said Aziraphale.

“What is that thing I had the last time?” Gabriel asked. “I want another one of those.”

“…He’ll have a Shirley Temple.”

Nicole hurried off, leaving the four off them sitting awkwardly around the table. Crowley cleared his throat. “So, what kind of car do you drive, then?”

Before Gabriel could answer, there was a surge of power and Nicole reappeared, looking very surprised to find herself at their table with two drinks on a tray. “Um. I thought these were going to take a bit longer, but… here you are, I guess?” she said uncertainly.

Gabriel rounded on Aziraphale. “What did we discuss about frivolous miracles?”

Aziraphale took a long sip of his gin and tonic and managed to look both conciliatory and unrepentant at the same time. Crowley was impressed. “It’s such a rare occasion for you to come to dinner, my dear, and I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

“Miracles?” asked the server.

At this Aziraphale did actually look apologetic. “I’m terribly sorry, my dear. I hope this hasn’t startled you overly much. Or disrupted your bartender’s schedule too greatly. We angels can sometimes get a little ahead of ourselves, I’m afraid.” He laughed nervously.

“Angels! We don’t get many coming in here. Are you all angels?” Nicole breathed, starry-eyed. 

Crowley snickered. “Not anymore.”

“Just the two of us, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said quickly, putting a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder.

Gabriel gestured toward Anathema. “I suppose she could be one someday, but I have serious doubts.”

“I think we’re ready to order now.” Crowley thought he detected a hint of desperation in Aziraphale’s voice.

“What?!” Anathema exclaimed. “You haven’t even looked at what they’ve got.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath in and huffed it out. “No, I haven’t. But if the rest of you go first, I can be ready when you’re through.” 

Anathema ordered fancy vegetarian pasta. Crowley asked for spinach dip. “To share,” he said flippantly.

Aziraphale was still reading the menu. “I think I can say, with total confidence, that in no restaurant throughout the entirety of human history has anyone ever been ready to order when the other people are done,” Crowley said with a smirk.

“Nothing for me,” Gabriel said disdainfully. He leaned over Aziraphale’s shoulder to peer at the menu and poked a picture with his forefinger. “That one looks healthy. Lots of plants.”

Aziraphale heaved a long-suffering sigh. “The garden salad, please. With salad cream. On the side.” He smiled stiffly. “And if you could bring me another gin and tonic, I’d be grateful.”

Aziraphale’s first gin and tonic was still almost completely full, Crowley observed, but when Nicole departed he drained the entire thing in one long drink.

*~*~*

Anathema and Aziraphale valiantly made small talk, mostly about the angels’ wedding, which was a topic Crowley had no inclination to discuss. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and surveyed Gabriel.

Gabriel managed to radiate boredom and mild contempt without speaking a word. The Shirley Temple had come with a cherry skewered on a plastic sword; the archangel plucked it from his drink and removed the cherry, dropping it on a napkin and examining the sword dispassionately.

From the corner of his eye Crowley caught Aziraphale watching him again. For the better part of the last ten minutes, Aziraphale had been glancing at him when he thought Crowley wasn’t looking. Finally Crowley had started responding with direct stares, and each time Aziraphale would blush, peek at Gabriel, and fiddle with some piece of his place setting. Sure enough, this time the process wound up with Aziraphale tracing vague patterns in the melted-ice sweat on his highball glass. 

Crowley hoped the server would come back with Aziraphale’s drink soon. He needed another, himself.

He picked up Gabriel’s discarded cherry and twirled it in his fingers. The stem broke off, and Crowley regarded it with disappointment; if that had been a cherry _he’d_ grown there would have been Words. He popped the stem in his mouth, his clever snake tongue idly working it into a knot.

He was suddenly aware of Gabriel watching him. “I didn’t think that was how fruit was supposed to be eaten,” Gabriel said with what was maybe the first real interest Crowley had seen from him all night.

Crowley considered and immediately discarded a number of jokes about apples. Instead he pursed his lips and pulled out the neatly knotted cherry stem for display. Anathema rolled her eyes. Aziraphale gawked. Gabriel’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “Stupid thing to waste a miracle on, even for a demon.”

“Not a miracle,” said Crowley loftily. “Just a matter of oral dexterity. Give it a try.” He reached over and snagged the cherry from Anathema’s drink. He tossed it to Gabriel, who caught it and barely hesitated before yanking off the stem and popping it in his mouth. 

“I know you’re unfamiliar with human etiquette, Gabriel, but this is… unseemly!” Aziraphale sputtered. 

Anathema patted his hand. “Now, Zira – this might be a useful skill for Gabriel to develop.” The angel turned a brilliant magenta.

“ _’Zira’_ ,” Gabriel scoffed, a bit indistinctly around his mouthful. Crowley bristled.

Nicole chose that moment to return with Aziraphale’s gin and tonic. The angel smiled at her gratefully and gestured for her to bend down, asking her something Crowley couldn’t hear. She raised her eyebrows and gave him a questioning, _are-you-sure_ sort of look, and he nodded. She placed their empty glasses on her tray and turned to leave.

“Bring more of these!” Gabriel waved a badly broken cherry stem.

“Bowl of cherries,” Crowley clarified. “And another Long Island Iced Tea, if you would.”

*~*~*

Anathema tucked into her pasta, while Aziraphale pushed his salad around on the plate and gazed wistfully at Crowley’s spinach dip, in which Crowley himself had no interest. He tried to be surreptitious about nudging his plate in Aziraphale’s direction. 

Nicole had brought Aziraphale another drink with the food; he’d downed it almost immediately, and was working on yet another. Crowley was still nursing his third Long Island Iced Tea. He did have to drive home, after all.

“So, Gabriel,” Anathema said faux-cheerfully. “Got Aziraphale’s wedding present picked out yet?”

Gabriel took a few seconds to answer. Finally, he spit out yet another broken cherry stem and asked, “Wedding present?” 

“Oh come now, Anath’ma,” said Aziraphale. “S’an optional tradition.” Crowley was surprised to hear a slur in his normally precise pronunciation. He’d thought alcohol tolerance came with the supernatural territory. 

“Well, yes, but – I know you have something picked out for Gabriel.”

“You know ver’ well what I got him. Don’t ruin the s’prise,” Aziraphale chided.

“You got me something?” Gabriel looked pleased. “What is it?”

“Cashmere scarf,” Aziraphale said promptly. “Purrrrrple. An’ a pocket watch. Like mine, but silver.” Unconcerned with his own surprise-spoiling, he listed slightly in his chair and took another swallow of his drink. Crowley eyed him with concern.

“Oh.” Gabriel lost interest. He ripped the stem off another cherry.

“D’you not want ‘em, then?” Aziraphale asked worriedly. “I was goin’ to get you new trainers, but… didn’t seem romantic.” He saw their server pass by and perked up, waving her over. “’Nother one please, dear.” 

“Okay, Gabriel,” Anathema tried again, with exaggerated patience. “Aziraphale knows your interests well enough to think of trainers and scarves. What do you know about his?”

Gabriel considered. “Human things. Books. Food. Drinks. Weddings, apparently.”

“Good, that’s a start!” Anathema said encouragingly, ignoring the disdain. “What kinds of books?”

“The Bible,” said Gabriel.

“Oh, come on,” Crowley complained. “Bit of a generic answer for an angel, yeah?”

Gabriel looked away and fidgeted – actually fidgeted – with the bowl of stemless cherries. 

“You’ve known him for more than six thousand years, and you’re saying that outside of the Bible, you can’t tell me a single book or author he’s read?!” Anathema said in disbelief.

“I can!” Crowley said triumphantly. “What’s her name – Georgette Heyer! That’s one.”

Anathema shook her head. “Aziraphale has _not_ read Georgette Heyer.”

“He has so!” cried Crowley indignantly. “Only reason I know the name is because it’s what he was reading the day I ran into him early at the photographer’s.”

The entire table looked at Aziraphale. The angel’s face was hot pink all the way down to his tartan bowtie; he gulped his drink intently and refused to meet anyone’s stare.

“You’re engaged and you don’t know anything about him,” Anathema turned back to Gabriel in outrage. “You don’t know that he _does_ collect Bibles, but especially misprinted ones. And Regency snuffboxes. You don’t know that he loves tea and red wine and scones and chocolate cake.” 

Crowley eagerly made a mental catalogue. 

Anathema ranted on, “I’ve known him just barely five years, and I can tell you all that. Hell, this demon knows more about him than you do, and he’s only known him a few weeks!”

“Now _that’s_ a fascinating observation,” said Gabriel sharply.

Crowley was thankful for the distraction of the server’s appearance. “Selena says angel or no she’s cutting you off after this one.” Nicole set the drink in front of Aziraphale. “Even if you can handle all that liquor, she’s almost out of gin.”

“A few gin and tonics, and you’re out of gin?” Crowley said incredulously.

With the specific politeness reserved by all servers for ignorant customers, Nicole explained, “He asked if we could start leaving out the tonic. These have mostly been straight gin.”

“Need a quick word w’ Miss Selena.” Aziraphale tried to stand up and fell flat on his face, sending his chair flying.

“Zira!” Anathema rushed to him and helped him sit up. “Honey, you need to sober up.” Aziraphale just stared at her muzzily. “Sober up,” she repeated, patting his cheek. She looked up at Crowley. “I think he’s too drunk to manage this on his own. Get him sober, will you?”

“Can’t. Demon,” Crowley said helplessly. “Can’t sober up an angel.”

“Gabriel, you do it,” she snapped. 

Gabriel shrugged. “If he insists on polluting his corporation, he can live without wasting another miracle avoiding the consequences. Or if he discorporates, he’ll just get a new body.” He brightened. “I could expedite the paperwork as a wedding present!”

“For fuck’s sake,” Anathema spat. “Crowley, help me get him up.” Together they levered Aziraphale up off the floor and half-carried him to a restroom, which was too small for three. When the angel began emitting awful noises – and liquids – Crowley was only too happy to leave Anathema to it.

He strode back out to their table, setting Aziraphale’s fallen chair to rights as an excuse to not have to look at Gabriel until he could calm himself down. 

Gabriel sat poking at the uneaten spinach dip, spearing bits of flatbread with the little plastic sword. He looked up as he heard the scrape of the chair. “Is he all right?”

“Do you care?” Crowley asked hotly. 

“I don’t _not_ care,” Gabriel irritably replied. 

“Could’ve fooled the rest of us.” Crowley flung himself back into his seat and glared from behind his sunglasses. “You’re pretty callous about this whole thing for someone who’s marrying him.”

“And you’re pretty invested for someone who’s not.” 

It was a truth Crowley didn’t want to think about. “So why marry him?” he asked Gabriel flatly. “When the best you can say about him is that you ‘don’t not care’?”

Gabriel looked surprised. “I thought all demons and angels knew about the—"

“Yeah, yeah, better miracles, all that,” Crowley interrupted. “Large scale healing, large scale blessing, whatever.”

“Large scale smiting,” Gabriel smiled coldly.

Crowley didn’t pause to consider that comment. “But why _him?_ You don’t do anything but look down your nose at him. There’s plenty of other fish in the sea.”

“Fish in the sea?” Gabriel asked in confusion. 

“Fish in the sea, angels in the heavens, whatever you like. Plenty of others to choose from, is what I’m saying. Why Aziraphale?”

“For a Principality, he absolutely radiates heavenly energy – he actually glows with it sometimes! Surely you’ve noticed.” Gabriel gave Crowley a side-eye. “Aside from his unfortunate obsession with human customs, he’ll be an excellent partner. And he’s always been a devoted servant of Heaven. No reason why that dedication shouldn’t be rewarded.”

“Being married to you for eternity is a reward?” Crowley said skeptically.

Gabriel drew himself up to as much of his full height as he could muster while still seated, eyes icy.

Oblivious to the pending drama, Anathema flounced furiously back to their table. “He had all that gin with almost nothing in his stomach – he won’t be fit for anything until it’s worked itself out of his system,” she declared. “Gabriel, if you won’t sober him up you at least need to take him home.”

“I’ll get the car.” Gabriel stood, still glowering at Crowley, and stalked out of the restaurant.

A pointed throat-clearing announced the reappearance of Nicole, who held out the check. Anathema and Crowley exchanged a long look. “So much for our apology dinner,” Anathema said acidly. 

“I’ve got it.” Crowley dug out a credit card. Normally he’d just miracle away the charges, but he felt like the server deserved more than a little compensation for this disaster of an evening. 

“You know,” she said with disappointment as she took the card, “They weren’t very angelic at all.”

Crowley surveyed the half-eaten food, the collection of empty gin glasses, the scatter of cherry stems. “Nope, they weren’t. But don’t hold it against the blond one. He had a few good excuses.”

*~*~*

Aziraphale was able to make it up to the front of the restaurant mostly on his own steam; there had been a bit of a commotion while Crowley was paying the bill, but by the time he got to the foyer the angel was out the door with Anathema.

“He’s still pretty ginger so I thought it’d be less of a mess if we waited out here,” she said as Crowley emerged. The rain was still coming down, and she and Aziraphale were huddled as far as they could get under the awning. “I still can’t believe that asshole wouldn’t just fix this poor idiot. What the hell is taking him so long? The parking garage is only a block away.” 

Aziraphale was pale and drawn. He was holding himself upright but unsteady on his feet. He began to pat himself down, absentmindedly at first but then with increasing urgency. “My pocketwatch! S’gone, Anath’ma!”

He took a staggering step, peering blearily at the ground around him, and Anathema pulled him back firmly. “You probably dropped it in the restroom,” she said with exasperation. “Crowley, let him lean on you for a minute while I go look.” 

She draped Aziraphale over Crowley’s arm and disappeared. Crowley froze in horrified delight. Delighted horror? Whatever it was, it had him immobilized.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale said. The slur had faded a bit from his voice. 

“Yes?” Crowley told himself _he’s drunk, he doesn’t know what he’s going to say,_ I _don’t know what he’s going to say, Gabriel’s going to be here any second, fuck fuck fuck –_

“I think I got some sick on my coat.”

_Well._

Completely taken aback, unsure whether to be relieved or crushed, Crowley looked down to inspect. “Um. Yeah, looks like it.” He patted Aziraphale’s arm in dazed consolation. “You can miracle it away when you’re feeling better.”

Aziraphale looked up at him with glassy, imploring eyes. “Yes. But I’d always know it was there. Underneath, I mean.”

Demons couldn’t help angels themselves, but maybe that didn’t extend to clothing? Experimentally, Crowley blew on Aziraphale’s coat, and the stain lifted away and vanished in the drizzle.

“Oh! Thank you,” Aziraphale beamed gratefully, glowing even through his inebriated haze. 

Crowley shivered in the damp rain. Something occurred to him. “Did you leave your umbrella inside too, angel? We could really use it out here.”

“Er. No. Not exactly.” Aziraphale looked away guiltily. 

“Well, where is it then?”

Aziraphale mumbled something indistinct.

“Lost it, have you?” Crowley needled.

“I gave it away!” the angel cried, gesturing down the street. Crowley peered through the rain and saw a man standing at a bus stop with the bright, pale blue umbrella. “He didn’t even have a rain jacket. I couldn’t just let him go out with nothing. He looked so miserable.” Aziraphale looked miserable too. “Anathema was so cross with me.”

All Crowley could do was stare at him in amazement. 

The rain picked up again, and he moved farther back under the awning, pulling Aziraphale against his chest.

Demons couldn’t smell other demons – and neither could humans, for that matter, at least not that any of them had ever said – but they could smell angels. Crowley didn’t know if it worked the other way around, but he hoped so. Gabriel didn’t deserve the luxury of Aziraphale’s scent: light musk and sandalwood, maybe a hint of honey. And gin, at the moment, but that was all right. He cradled the drunken angel closer and breathed it in deep. 

“My dear boy – you’re all wet in this wretched weather, too!” Aziraphale jerked anxiously away from Crowley and took a wobbly step; Crowley lunged to grab him and found himself almost buffeted in the face as Aziraphale manifested a pair of luminous white wings. Swaying in place, the angel carefully raised one wing to arch over Crowley’s head.

“There now, that’s better,” he said happily. 

Crowley was still chilled through, and all he could really see of Aziraphale’s face was a glazed red eye peeping through the white feathers, but he didn’t think he’d ever been more in love.

Anathema finally popped out of the door and ground to a halt, startled at the sight; when he noticed her, Aziraphale raised the other wing and motioned her under. “I found your watch.” She tucked it into his coat pocket.

The three of them stood in silence, listening to the patter of the rain, and Crowley wondered how on Earth he was going to put this angel in Gabriel’s car and send him away.

The problem reared its head immediately as headlights appeared around the corner and Aziraphale perked up in recognition.

Gabriel drove a DeLorean.

Both the drive and passenger doors began to open, and Crowley could see Gabriel fumbling with something behind the steering wheel. Music tinkled out of the car; Crowley expected hymns or maybe some kind of chanting, but through the rain he heard, “High on a hill was a lonely goatherd.” 

“Look – the car has wings too!” Aziraphale announced excitedly, and raised his own along with the DeLorean. Raindrops ran off his feathers and trickled onto Crowley and Anathema. 

“Put those away!” yelled Gabriel. “And get in here. But don’t make a mess.” Aziraphale obediently tucked his wings back out of sight.

Crowley couldn’t move, but Anathema could, and did, bustling Aziraphale into the passenger seat and buckling him in. The doors folded closed. 

Aziraphale looked dolefully at him from behind the window and placed a hand against the glass. Crowley met his eyes only briefly before the tires hissed on the wet pavement and Gabriel drove away.

He stared numbly for a moment into the rain. 

Taking a deep breath, he glared at Anathema. “Purple eyes? Wings? So much for your blessed tea leaves.”

“They weren’t wrong, were they?” she growled. “Shut up and go get the Bentley.”

*~*~*

The rain had mostly stopped by the time they got back to Jasmine Cottage. They’d bickered the whole way back about Anathema’s divination; Crowley was surly, but still grateful for the argument, which kept the conversation from straying to Gabriel and Aziraphale. 

They were standing in front of the door, still going back and forth, when Newt stepped out of the cottage at the same time the DeLorean pulled up. The three of them stared in astonishment as the passenger door began to rise. 

“Why are you all just standing there? Come get him!” called Gabriel.

Anathema hurried to the car. “I thought you were taking him home.”

“I thought you meant take him to your home,” Gabriel countered. “He can’t come to mine. I’ve had to miracle away two of the most disgusting messes on the way over here.” He curled his lip. Crowley had rushed over, hot on Anathema’s heels, and saw that Aziraphale was looking decidedly green. Apparently putting him in a moving car hadn’t done his stomach any good. 

For one extremely brief and extremely guilty moment, Crowley was relieved he hadn’t driven him anywhere in the Bentley.

He reached down and unbuckled Aziraphale’s seatbelt, and he and Anathema hauled the angel out of the car and onto the lawn. Gabriel’s blessed stereo was still playing the Sound of Music, and as the DeLorean’s door closed there was a last blast of “Doe, a deer, a female deer,” before he drove off.

“Ray, a drop of golden sun,” sang Aziraphale, badly off-key. He turned and vomited into Anathema’s hedge. 

“How long is it going to take him to sober up enough to miracle the rest of the way?” Anathema wondered. 

“So… what happened?” asked Newt.

“Long story. Let’s just get him inside,” Crowley said tiredly. Newt jumped to assist, and together they slung Aziraphale’s arms over their shoulders and walked him forward.

“I fucking hate The Sound of Music,” Aziraphale informed them as they helped him through the door.

“Don’t we all,” said Crowley.

*~*~*

When Aziraphale had been installed on Anathema’s sofa with a bucket to hand, the three of them gathered in the kitchen. Anathema told Newt about the events of the evening while Crowley made himself a cup of coffee. He’d violently refused to let Anathema make them any tea.

“Well,” Newt said. “What’s to be done now?”

“Only one thing for it.” Anathema looked decisive, which was never a great sign. “Aziraphale wants to marry Gabriel so they can do good deeds together, yes?” 

“Ye-es,” Crowley concurred cautiously.

“Then you just need to show him he can do good deeds with you.”

“Anathema. You’re forgetting an important point here.” He let his eyes go yellow, and his fangs peek out from behind his lips. Newt flinched. 

Anathema was unimpressed. “Like being a demon has ever stopped you from doing nice things before. You’re a wedding singer, for goodness’ sake.”

“Goodness has nothing to do with it. It’s a chance to fuck things up for people. You do remember why I’m not singing right now, don’t you? Not exactly a paragon of virtue, me,” Crowley said doggedly. “Certainly can’t compete with an archangel.” 

“Well, after that kiss in the garden I’m pretty sure you have other points on your scoreboard.”

“Kiss in the garden?” Newt demanded.

The sound of liquid in the bucket emanated from the direction of the sofa, and everyone turned in unison to see Aziraphale seated upright, hands over his face. “Zira?” Anathema asked warily. “How are you feeling?”

When the angel dropped his hands, it was clear he was utterly sober. “I’m feeling much better now, thank you. I’m so terribly sorry for my behavior. It’s – I’ve never overindulged in such an abominable fashion.” He flushed in embarrassment and picked up the bucket. “Is there a place I might empty this? …It’s only gin.”

Anathema pointed. “Just in the sink there.” The angel poured the gin carefully down the drain and fussed with the bucket until she stepped forward and took it from his hands, which he then began to wring. 

“I’m afraid it’s a bit late to be heading to Gabriel’s. Might I avail myself of your spare room?”

“Of course. Zira—”

“Thank you, Anathema,” he cut her off. “I’m grateful for your hospitality.” Without meeting anyone’s eyes – and avoiding Crowley in particular – he vanished down the hall. Crowley wondered how much he’d heard of their conversation.

Everyone looked at each other, nonplussed, until Anathema dropped the bucket and flopped into a chair. “So, Crowley. Budding do-gooder. Better start figuring out your game plan.”

He glared at her. “This is never going to work.”

“Do you have a better idea, Crowley? One… single… better idea?”

Much as it galled him to fall in with Anathema’s scheme, he did not in fact have any other ideas. He shook his head in disgust – whether at Anathema, or himself, or the entire situation, he didn’t know. 

“You _are_ singing for that birthday party next week,” Newt said. 

“Look. If I’m going to do this, I don’t need help from you. Either of you.” Crowley pushed himself back from the table and pulled out his keys. “If you’ll excuse me, I apparently have some ‘good deeds’ to plan.” He wanted to slam the door on his way out, but if Aziraphale had already gone to bed _(did he sleep?)_ he didn’t want to wake him up. 

The kitchen light winked out as he started up the Bentley, and Newt showed no signs of emerging. He sourly supposed he should be glad that at least someone’s love life was going smoothly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapters might be delayed for a bit, as I'm participating in the Good Omens AU Fest (keep an eye out for my library AU!) but they will be forthcoming! Thanks for your patience, and for reading.


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